


your loving troubled hands

by leirskald



Series: i know you by heart [2]
Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-01-13 03:41:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21237566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leirskald/pseuds/leirskald
Summary: a life spent waiting and wanting. life with a time-traveler, in three parts.Sana is always leaving, and Mina, always left behind.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Is this too much? I worry that this is too much.
> 
> Firstly, I have to thank you all for the kind comments and praise. I promise to get to replying them soon, but I thought you'd prefer it if I updated instead lol. Honestly, I didn't really like this piece of writing, because it feels inconsistent and clumsy, like patchwork instead of one whole cohesive fabric, y'know. I realise I am lacking in this aspect. But I felt obliged to at least try. So, here you guys go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 27, Sana marries Mina.

your loving troubled hands

**1; a temporary separation**

** Mina **

(Sana is 11)

Her mother’s dead, she knows it. Knows it the same way she knows the moon changes the tide of the sea and the world spins counter-clockwise on its axis. It’s fact, as her science teacher tells her. These are just plain facts. Proven constantly to stand the test of time.

Her mother’s dead and there’s a nurse escorting her out of the room. “Little kids shouldn’t have to see this,” someone – another patient, maybe – says.

The nurse sits her outside, on one of those primary-coloured beam chairs, and tells her to sit tight.

Sana listens. The nurse is pretty and kind, and she sits with Sana. The white fluorescent light makes her look wan. The bones of her cheeks strain against tight skin, lends her the appearance of something gaunt. In the light, Sana realises, there are monsters, too. The lasting kind.

They sit for awhile. Death makes for poor conversation, so they sit quietly. Sana wishes she had her blanket with her, even if she’s big enough to only need it in bed, at night.

Until Sana hears, distinctly, the sound of a man keening. Rough and torn from the throat. The nurse shifts in her seat. These beam chairs aren’t particularly comfortable.

The keening goes on for some time before the nurse interrupts, a strange, smiling look on her face, and says, “You’re twelve, right?”

“Eleven,” Sana corrects, almost indignantly.

“Oh, wow. You’re all grown up, aren’t you?” Then she continues, without waiting for an answer, “You know, these next few days are going to be the hardest. So you need to be a big girl, okay?”

Sana nods. Asks, in a quiet, shaky voice, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

The nurse’s eyes widen. “No, why – it was an aneurysm – no, why would you think that?”

“My parents were fighting because of me, and now my mom is dead because of me.”

“No, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. These things just happen. It’s no one’s fault.”

Sana sniffles, but she doesn’t cry. There’s no reason for it; it just doesn’t seem like the time for tears. Not when someone’s mourning loudly in the room and her mother’s also in there. Her stomach churns, though.

When the nurse leaves her eventually, with a soft touch to the shoulder and a, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sana nods and says, “I’m a big girl.”

The nurse’s eyes soften. “Your father will be out to see you in a minute, okay. Wait here.”

“Okay.”

Her father doesn’t come to retrieve her until later. He emerges from the ward, a bear of a man, and sits next to her. Says nothing. Doesn’t look Sana’s way either. Finally, he rubs at his face and leans back into the chair. Neither of them speaks. And that, Sana thinks, has always been the problem.

The orderlies wheel out a bed. Someone’s tucked in a blanket, the baby blue blanket pulled the whole way up, so the person looks faceless, just slight rises in fabric where the nose and eyes are.

“We’ll move her to a private room, so you can spend some time with her,” one of the orderlies says. “If you could follow me, please.”

Her father starts to speak, but his words are hoarse and half-stuck in his throat. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yes, yes, of course.”

He stands and follows them, doesn’t spare a glance to Sana. Sana waits and waits.

(Mina is 5, Sana is 15)

Sana is lost. She’d been sleeping at home when it happened. And when she wakes, she’s in someone’s garage. There’s no car parked so she assumes no one’s at home.

She’s checking the laundry for any clothes to put on when she hears the pitter-patter of small footsteps approaching. She panics, one arm in a t-shirt that’s four times her size and trips over a laundry basket when she sees her.

A toddler Mina. With an incomplete set of teeth. She doesn’t know then, of course, that this would be the Mina she’ll come to know and love a little later. But then she hears another girl yelling for Mina, a babysitter perhaps, and hurriedly escapes through the yard. And it isn’t till she manages to find her way home that she realises there’s still a clothes peg attached to the hem of her shirt.

(Mina is 19, Sana is 29)

The party’s in full swing. The music’s loud; the wall hums along to the bass. It’s a song Mina doesn’t recognise. But the beat Mina’s familiar with.

One – fingers are dragged up the front of her flimsy material of her tank top. Two – they find her ear, rubs her earlobes, catches on her earring in their hasty descent, which brings her to: three – they hook into the waistband of her jean shorts, tugs down lightly in daring. A grin is pressed to her shoulder.

“Mina?” she hears it over the thudding of music. Someone whistles. The voice is thin and reedy, straining to be heard.

Mina turns, one hand in her date’s hair, the other gone up her shirt, and looks. It’s Sana. Dressed in an oversized jeans jacket that has the sleeves eating up the length of her fingers, and khaki cargo trousers. She’s barefoot. Mina cringes internally at that; the floor’s icky with alcohol and spit and god knows what else.

She feels her date move against her. Hears her snicker at the mismatched clothes and the shell-shocked look on Sana’s face, like she’d just been slapped. Mina’s hands drop from the girl’s hair and belly at once.

Several things happen at once: Sana shakes her head minutely, a strange smile creeping up her face as though she’d gotten the wrong person and is now embarrassed for having called out. Mina says, “Shit.” And starts to go after her. Her date frowns. Snatches Mina’s wrist, and says, “Hey, wait.” But Mina is already leaving, wrenching her hand away.

She shoulders through the crowd, sees a flash of denim-blue push open the toilet door. It feels like she’s swimming against rapid currents, left breathless as she finally swings the toilet door open and slips inside. The music’s less pronounced in here, but it smells awful. Someone is throwing up in one of the stalls, and it does _not _sound pretty.

Sana’s washing her hands in the furthest sink. She’s being thorough about it, scrubbing at the skin, picking under her nails.

Mina falters. Having followed her this far, she hasn’t really thought of what comes next. Her heels clack on the tiles as she approaches, worrying her lips, but then realises she’s not in the wrong.

They aren’t dating. Not explicitly. Sana has given her little to no assurances on their relationship so why should she? How can you have a relationship with someone who’s not even there most of the time? Who she hasn’t even actually met? (Mina knows these are excuses, but still.)

Mina’s lonely, and homesick, and a party seems like a good way to forget. It worked well enough; she’d forgotten that Sana’s supposed to show up.

So she puts aside the guilt. Marches right up to Sana to demand what her problem is, or to stop looking at her like someone had died. She begins, defensively, “You weren’t there.”

It comes out a lot more accusatorily than she intended. But it’s too late to stop now. She’s a freight train going a hundred miles an hour, spurred on by indignance.

“You weren’t there,” she continues. “What was I supposed to do? Wait for you? You didn’t even – you said nothing about – what are we, even?”

Sana’s watching her through the mirror. Slowly, she turns off the tap and wrings her hands dry. From her twitchy expression, it’s clear Sana’s trying not to be annoyed. She lifts a brow. “When did you get so confrontational?”

Mina bristles. She parks herself in Sana’s space; she deserves more than to be side-eyed or looked through the mirror. “Well, maybe you just didn’t know that about me.”

Sana barks out a laugh. “You’re kidding. I know _everything _about you. You, and all of your stupid habits.”

Sana’s aware she’s going about this the wrong way. The Mina she’s used to is a Mina that is already settled, mature, comfortable with herself. One that’s already married to her. This Mina is young, and the last thing she needs is another pseudo-parent breathing down her neck. Sana knows too well that Mina, stubbornly independent that she is, hates that most of all.

Sana doesn’t mention marriage, for obvious reasons.

“No, you don’t,” Mina counters. The retching stops. They really shouldn’t be having this argument in public, and definitely not in a toilet that’s the physical manifestation of bad decisions. “You know some version of me that doesn’t even exist yet. You’re judging me unfairly. Look, you’re doing it now. You know what, in fact, you have no right to judge me. I don’t even know who you are.”

Sana grits her teeth. Mina really gets her blood going, and now it sings underneath her skin. That’s true in all timelines. Sana doubts she will ever meet anyone else who has that same effect on her, past or present.

Right now, all Sana sees is the bright red smear at the corner of Mina’s lips where that blonde girl had kissed. The garish light does her no favours. Mina looks like a trashy drunk with her glittery eyeshadow and sweat stains. She reeks of liquor too. But she’s right. Sana does not know this version of her. This is before they officially met, before Mina became officially inducted into Sana’s life.

But it stings, that there’s a part of Mina that excludes Sana, when her life’s been so closely tangled with Mina’s almost all her life. It does make sense, Sana supposes, that Mina’s trying to learn who she is without Sana. She has every right to be selfish.

She should have just slapped Sana. It would have hurt a lot less.

“You don’t need me to tell you what we are,” is what Sana says, eyes fixed on the lipstick smear. “Because you’re right. You have completely no idea who I am. And what do you care about what a stranger thinks."

Sana says, “Excuse me.” Pushes past Mina. She needs to get the hell out of there, before she does something stupid. Like kiss Mina, or cry.

Mina wrestles with her to pin her in place. Sana sees that her pupils are blown. “No, fuck you. You hear me? _Fuck. You_. You have no idea how hard it is.”

“And you think it's easy for me?" Sana raises her voice. Later, she will come to regret her harsh tone. Mina flinches back, but does not relent. "I'm _trying_!"

“Don't yell at me!”

Mina's voice cracks mid-sentence. Sana's heart twinges. But for now, this is beyond apologies. Both their prides and the nursing of their own hurts have made it so. They've let it sit and stew for too long.

At the time, it never really occurred to her that Mina would ever see anyone outside of her. Self-centred as it was, she had always assumed Mina would be – waiting.

That is, perhaps, her biggest mistake.

There is also the fact that they – Sana and Mina – end up married. Which is why Sana had initially dismissed their botched relationship as trivial and insignificant.

“Fine,” Sana says, cruelly. She can't seem to look Mina in the eye, feels undeserving to. "Date her, fuck her. See if I care.”

Then she leaves. Mina tries to stop her, of course, to argue some more. But it’s pointless, surely Mina must see that by now. She’s just stalling. Trying to get Sana to agree with her. Whatever she’s looking for, she won’t find either way. Sana disappears into the crowd, Mina behind her, and then all that remains is a jean jacket and a pair of trousers trampled on the floor.

Mina decides to leave the premises for fresh air, anyway. She walks a few steps, sits on the curb and, before she knows it, she’s crying.

(Mina is 24, Sana is 25)

Sana’s always known herself to be the sentimental sort. And yet, admitting her love for anyone is like pulling teeth, and most days, she doesn’t say it at all. Doesn’t mean it’s not true, though. It’s just that with her condition and the way she is, she has to be a bit more cautious with the things she says or doesn’t say.

Sometimes she doesn’t think it’s love. Those days, she’d appear on the doorstep of their flat shivering, unable to form proper sentences, and Mina will haul her in by her arms and wrap her in blankets or run her a hot bath.

This time, Mina fetches her from a playground in an entirely separate estate, sat idly on the swing-set in a sweatshirt and cargo pants pilfered from a clothesline.

Mina puts the kettle on. The naked lightbulb Mina had installed over their dinner table for more light sways back and forth. Sana sits on the chair with her feet soaked in a basin of warm water, wrapped in the many blankets Mina had brought out from the wardrobe.

No one speaks, but Sana’s silence is heavy with unsaid apologies and Mina’s with worry.

It’s three in the morning, and Mina has class early tomorrow. Sana’s been doing this for a while now; she can manage just fine on her own.

So she says, her voice shaky, “You should go to sleep.”

Mina scratches at her arm absently. “Yeah, in a bit.”

“I can take care of myself.”

It can’t be love. And if it is, what good is it if Sana says it? What is that supposed to mean when all she does is make Mina worry? How can it be love when all Sana manages to do is trouble her? If it only makes Mina sad?

Mina says nothing at first. Sana hears her sigh as the water comes to a boil. Listens to her rifling through the cupboards for a sachet of green tea and pour hot water into a mug. When she rounds the table to set the mug on it, Sana looks away, feeling like a nuisance and being sore about it.

But then Mina surprises her — she descends to her knees in front of Sana, staring at Sana’s bare, skinned knees. Then she takes Sana’s hands that had been gripping the blankets tightly around her shoulders and brings them to her mouth to blow on them. Sana watches her.

“I’m sorry,” Sana croaks, eventually.

“Stop that,” Mina snaps. Sana hangs her head. Then, more softly, running her thumbs over Sana’s frosty fingertips, over the angry red scratches on her knuckles she’d gotten scrambling in the dark by the roadside, Mina reassures her: “You didn’t ask for this. You don’t need to be sorry for anything. So stop apologising, okay.”

Sana sniffs. “Okay.”

“I love you. I’m going to love you until we’re both old and ugly and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, okay?” Mina says, almost aggressively. The conviction in her voice is palpable.

Sana wants nothing more than to believe her. She laughs stiffly, “You? Ugly? Impossible.”

That draws a laugh out of Mina, who cups her face in warm palms, traces the ridge of her brow with a thumb, says, “Flattery doesn’t look good on you, darling.”

Sana, recognising how miserable she looks, argues, “Well that’s because I look like this now. Wait till I’ve warmed up – I’ll have you pressed against the table.”

Mina’s brow lifts. A challenge. “Oh really? And what makes you so sure it’ll be _me_ who’ll be pressed against the table?”

Sana grins, goofy and lopsided.

So in those times Sana doesn’t think it’s love, Mina reminds her that it is. Mina kisses the top of her head, rubs her palms up and down Sana’s shoulders, meaning to prove every bit of it.

(Mina is 26, Sana is 27)

There’s something to be said about the simple, honest way with which Mina loves her.

She’s crowned with a daisy chain. Tepid sunlight finds them in strained, dying stands through a narrow slat above the shelf of cleaning supplies. The evening is winding down and the day is coming to an end. Sana is giggling like a child, euphoric. Mina takes this all in with her hands in the fold of Sana’s dress – how nice her waist feels under Mina’s hand.

“Married,” Sana says, in fits and giggles. She steeples her fingers together and brings them to her lips. “Married. I can’t believe Jeongyeon and Nayeon unnie are married!”

Mina considers her, head tilted, eyes wide and happy. Her hair’s the loveliest brown; it makes Mina want to sink her fingers in and _tug_. Mina draws her close. Presses her up against the door. Waits for Sana to stop laughing before she initiates anything.

Mina simply _demands_ her fullest attention.

“Are you happy?” Mina asks, gently.

“Of course!” Sana says – no – squeals. “Can’t you see how happy I am?”

“I can,” Mina hums, a quiet kind of happy. “Sana, we should get married, too.”

Sana’s laughter begins taking on this hiccupy quality. But it dies down the moment she sees Mina’s unfaltering expression. “You’re not – oh, you’re serious.”

Mina waits, expectant. Her heart is offered on a plate. Her fingers shake a little on the trimming of Sana’s dress. Sana blinks. Seconds pass and then –

“No.”

Mina frowns, taking this in slowly. She repeats, thinking maybe she’d heard wrong, “No?”

Sana’s eyes soften. The look she gives is open, raw affection. Mina wishes to soak in it. “No, you’re not proposing to me in a broom closet with your hand up my dress.”

Mina looks mildly insulted, removes her hands from Sana’s waist. Attempts modesty by taking a step back. “I wasn’t – !”

“I know,” Sana teases, “but you were thinking it.”

Mina huffs with token impatience. “I was just thinking how pretty you look. You shouldn’t accuse me of things _you_ want to do.”

“Darling, I’d let you do almost anything to me.”

Mina blushes. Turns her face away. Sana and her bold words. Mina clears her throat, says, “So, marriage? Thoughts?”

Sana thinks of a 34-year-old Mina rinsing carrots in the sink, her shadowed eyes, the cracks and the fractures that come with disillusionment. But nothing beats this. Nothing beats Mina turning ruddy and hopeful at the mention of marriage. The future will not cow her into depriving herself of the things that make her good, make her whole.

So, at least for today, she shuns the bitterness and resentment of future Mina’s, and makes do with the blunt joy on Mina’s face.

“Yes,” she decides.

(Mina is 28, Sana is 29)

The call comes sometime at night. Sana’s curled up in the sheets, dozing. Mina’s not home yet; it’s not uncommon for her to be back late, especially since the submission date for her thesis is approaching.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, once, twice, then _incessantly_ –

She snatches it off the nightstand, taps at the screen to see that it’s Nayeon and snarls into the receiver: “_What_.”

The charger the phone’s plugged into topples off the nightstand. Sana blinks blearily at it. She hasn’t gotten much sleep lately. What little of it she’s gotten are spent in Mina’s laps, or pressed up to Mina’s back. It’s kind of pathetic.

So pardon her if she’s cranky amidst time-travelling and sleep deprivation.

“Sana!” Nayeon says, a little too loudly. Sana pulls the phone away from her ear momentarily.

“Unnie,” Sana says, “it’s – _one_ in the morning.”

Nayeon barges on as if she hasn’t heard. A dangerous hiccup follows. “Sana! It’s me. You know, Nayeon!”

“Yes, I know, unnie. I have your number,” Sana explains, with all the patience she can muster (which is not much). She rubs at her eyes. Expects to see smudged black when she takes her fingers away.

“Right, anyways,” Nayeon’s saying, though it’s a little hard to hear. Her voice seems to be flitting in and out from nearby, then far away, and it’s loud on her end, too. “I have Mina here. She wants to speak with you, she says!”

_Mina?_

Sana sighs into the pillow she’s been holding to her face, then mumbles, “Okay, put her on.”

“Satang,” Mina says, more affectionately than Sana’s ever heard it. “Satang, can you come pick me up? Please?”

“Mina, are you _drunk_?”

“No,” Mina says. At the same time, she hears Nayeon yell: “Yes, she is!”

“Okay,” Sana says. She’s already getting out of bed, toeing into slippers and shrugging on a jacket over her pyjamas. “Okay, I’m coming. Where are you?”

Mina is quiet for a moment, then confesses in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t know.”

Sana sighs, again. “Put Nayeon unnie on the phone.”

By the time she’s roughly figured out their address, Sana’s already in the car and on the way.

When she finds them – Nayeon and Mina – Mina’s already past her fluttery high and is now moving on to her weepy stage. Nayeon is busy bothering god-knows-who at 1 in the morning over the phone. But then she hangs up when Sana arrives at the carpark, looking bedraggled and worse for wear.

Sana’s voice is sharp and angry. But her eyes are tired. “You shouldn’t be out here in this weather.”

“Sana,” Nayeon slurs, throws her hands in the air and drapes herself over Sana’s side. Clings onto her arm. “You’re here. I love you. I can’t believe you’re here.”

“And I can’t believe you’re drunk,” Sana returns, flatly. “God, you _stink_.”

Mina’s looking up at her with sad, big eyes and Sana can’t seem to stay angry at her. Can’t seem to say how worried she was.

Sana looks at Nayeon instead. Directs her anger and worry there, because it’s easier.

“Get in the car,” Sana tells her.

Nayeon snaps to attention, salutes, then marches in line to the car. Sana hears her struggling with the car door and the seatbelt in the back. But she’s looking at Mina now. She’s shivering, still in the clothes Sana had seen her leave home with – a turtleneck and a coat.

So Sana sheds her jacket and drops it over Mina’s shoulders, picks her up from where she’d been sitting on the curb and leads her to the car. Says nothing. Just steadies her with a hand to her lower back.

Nayeon falls asleep halfway through, and Jeongyeon has to come down to collect her, looking as though she’d also just been pulled from sleep. She looks apologetic and almost as tired as Sana feels.

“I’m so sorry, Sana,” Jeongyeon says. “I’ll talk to her.”

Sana watches Nayeon jerk her arm free in semi-consciousness, mumbling and drooling into Jeongyeon’s shoulder, and winces. “Maybe wait till morning. When she’s sober.”

Jeongyeon chuckles, adjusts her weight to better accommodate Nayeon. “Yes, good idea. Goodnight, Sana. Drive safe.”

Sana offers a wave, and then, with nothing to do, nothing to say between Mina and her, lets the radio run. Mina is still silent, looking out the window. Hard to reach.

When they reach home, Sana stalls the car in the lot, hand paused on the gear, and without looking over, says lowly, “This isn’t like you. Why were you drinking so much?”

Mina doesn’t reply. Just looks away. Sana’s too weary to be demanding answers, so she simply unbuckles her seatbelt and helps Mina out of the car and into bed. Rinse her face, undress her, take her shoes and socks off.

Mina’s tucked in and Sana’s about to shuffle to her side of the bed, relieved it’s over. She sits on the edge of the bed first, though, brushes hair out of her face, asking, “Are you okay?”

Mina looks at her, is silent for a good while, then reaches out to take Sana’s fingers in the relative dark of their bedroom. Sana happily tangles their fingers together, glad to have some response at least.

Until Mina says quietly, “When I’m with you, I’m the happiest and unhappiest I’ve ever been. When you married me, you made me the happiest and saddest woman, Sana.”

Sana freezes. Mina’s thumb rubs at her knuckle absently. Sana sits there. Doesn’t know what to think, except that it stings. Sana frowns, tries to find the right footing, the right words. The world’s shifting under her feet and she can’t seem to get up.

She knows (or rather, hopes) that Mina is out of it. But it’s not as though it’s far from the truth. And Mina is looking at her so seriously, so soberly, it’s hard to dismiss it as the incoherent blabbering of a drunkard.

In the end, all she manages is: “I, I –”

Eventually, though, she stands and goes to the couch. Doesn’t come back to bed for the rest of the night.

She must have been more exhausted than she thought because she falls asleep anyway. In an itchy last-resort blanket pulled from the cupboard and some hard cushion pillows.

She startles awake sometime later to a touch against her back. Hisses at cold hands and feet slipping under her blanket, pressed to her calves. A hand winds around her, fingers five cold points against her belly.

Sana turns her head slightly, “Mina?”

“Hm,” is all she gets, as Mina shifts to get comfy on their couch. It’s a good thing they’d invested into a decent-sized couch.

Sana stays carefully still, growing more and more alert. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re here,” Mina replies.

“Yes?”

Mina sighs into Sana’s back, between her shoulder blades. She’s cold all over, but her breath is warm and damp and Sana resists the subsequent shudder.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Mina says.

Sana is quiet. Doesn’t know how to answer without giving away how she’s sore about what Mina had said when she was inebriated. She decides, quietly defeated, “I didn’t want to disturb you. You needed your sleep.”

“And so do you, last I recall,” Mina mumbles.

Sana stiffens momentarily. “What do you remember?”

“My bad judgement to go out with Nayeon on a Friday night. Everything after that, not so much. Did you take me home?”

“Yeah,” Sana says, hesitating but eventually resting a hand over Mina’s on her stomach. “I did.”

“Sorry. I must have been a pain.”

Sana chuckles, but it sounds wrong. Odd and strained and breathy. Right now, she chooses to indulge Mina. “You were.”

“I hope I didn’t do anything embarrassing.”

“Darling, I wish you’d tell me if you were going to do something like that again,” Sana tells her.

“Trust me,” Mina assures, tightens her hold, “I’m not going to ever do that again.” Then, in a manner so unlike Mina, she whines: “My head hurts already.”

Sana is reticent. She strokes along Mina’s wristbone, circles her fingertips around the joint.

Perhaps there is more to Sana’s silence than she lets on, because Mina asks, uncertainly, “I…didn’t do anything bad, did I?”

And how could Sana tell her? How could she say that she makes Mina sad?

So Sana buries the hurt and the spite and simply turns over to face Mina, too close on that still too-small couch, and press their mouths together. Mina tastes like bad decisions and regret, and Sana thinks she probably tastes the same, too.

But hurts and sores need homes too. They fester in Sana like a wound gone bad and poison her.

(Mina is 28, Sana is 29)

They go out for dinner. Sana prods at a dumpling, appetite reduced to a pathetic thing. 

Mina studies her closely, chopsticks perched between fingers. At Mina’s look, Sana affords a wan smile and, for her benefit, picks up a dumpling to put on her plate. She’s afraid Mina might ask her what’s wrong, coax it out of her with her warm and skilful hands and words, and she’ll say what’s on her mind, and spoil this nice dinner.

It’s not _nice_, exactly. It’s an easy compromise. And it’s been getting easier to refuse to talk about what’s been bothering her. She supposes she’s worn Mina down, somewhat. Mina used to try harder.

For now, she puts these thoughts and residual hurt away.

“You could have told me if you wanted something else,” Mina says, at Sana’s lack of appetite.

“No, no,” Sana hastens to say. “Dumplings are fine. Dumplings are great.”

“Yes, because usually you’re _eating_ them.”

“I’m eating,” Sana insists, can’t help but slip into a defensive veneer.

“You’re staring,” Mina corrects.

Sana frowns down at her plate, feels a fresh spark of irritation. It leaves a sour taste in her mouth and has her pushing away her plate sullenly, like an impudent child refusing to eat anymore.

She looks up and sees frustration jump to Mina’s eyes. Can’t believe they’re about to fight because of this. She’s not sure when they’ve stopped trying to bridge the gap between them.

But they’re both stubborn people, so. They hold on to their anger and carry it with them the whole way home, breeds silence in the car with Sana refusing to look at Mina, and Mina’s short, clipped reminders when to take a turn. A takeout container of their leftovers from the restaurant sits in the back seat.

At home, Mina slams doors and Sana’s just so _sick _of this. She sits heavily on the couch. Since she’d held a 34-year-old Mina in her arms, standing in their very kitchen, things have changed. She fingers the ring on her finger pensively.

When she finally enters their bedroom, it’s dark and Mina is a lump under the blanket, inky hair spilling from her pillow to Sana’s. Sana wets her lips, considers maybe retiring to the couch for the night instead. Eventually, she shucks her jeans off and leaves them in a pool on the floor – maybe she’s still feeling a little vindictive.

She tries her best not to jostle Mina when she climbs into bed and turns to her side. Unsurprisingly, sleep eludes her. The darkness feeds her bad thoughts, and despite Mina lying right there next to her, the tips of her hair pricking at Sana’s arm, Sana can’t sleep.

She lies there instead. Falls deeper and deeper into her thoughts until Mina’s faint voice startles her out of it.

“I wish you’d just talk to me. You’ve been quiet ever since you came back last week.”

Sana looks over to where Mina still lies on her side, facing away from her. For all the ire she insists on keeping, the temptation to fit herself plush against Mina’s back is still great.

She breathes in. Doesn’t know what to say.

Mina continues: “Lately, all we’ve been doing is fight.”

When Sana does not respond this time, Mina turns over in the bed to see that Sana’s not yet asleep. And, for what feels like the hundredth time today, her eyes darken with anger and, worse still, disappointment.

“Silent treatment? Really?”

It’s too late now. She doesn’t know how to reply. She’s about to speak when Mina throws the covers roughly off her and gets to her feet, picking up her heavy-duty parka and her phone.

“I’m sleeping at Momo's tonight,” Mina says, tightly. Her tone brooks no argument.

This time, Sana follows, feet clumsily trying to mend what Sana’s silence had broken. She catches Mina’s wrist, surprised at the genuine note of anger in her voice. “Mina, wait.”

Mina wrenches her wrist out of her grasp, whirls around on her heel to jab an accusing finger in her chest, voice harshly serrated with anger, “I deserve better than this.”

Sana lets her hand drop. That’s been something she’s always known, always believed, but when said aloud – it feels like there’s broken glass sliding down her throat. “Yes,” she agrees, “you do.”

They’ve fought before, but never as bad as this. At the end of the day, someone would apologise and be forgiven, and they’d go to bed together. It has never ended with someone leaving for the night. Sana feels she doesn’t have the right to, but she fears for the worst.

Sana must look truly afraid, because the point of Mina’s anger softens. She looks away, and says, “I’m not leaving you. It’s just one night. I think we both need space.”

Sana nods, says weakly, “Okay. Text me when you get there.”

“Okay.”

The next morning, Sana wakes from a fitful sleep to a grey morning. Each time she feels she’s about to fall asleep, there’s a tugging at her gut, a yanking that threatens to rip her out of her bed, followed by a falling sensation.

Mina had texted her late last night with a simple: _i’m here. see u tmr._

The text is followed by Momo's: _what did u do_

Mina’s still not back.

Sana gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen to fix herself some breakfast. She fries eggs, thinly slices a tomato, and makes toast. She makes another plate for Mina, just in case.

She’s about to resign herself to eating breakfast by her lonesome when their front door opens to reveal an equally haggard-looking Mina.

Sana jumps in her chair. Mina takes off her shoes, breezes past her and all but slumps into the chair across Sana’s. She reaches for her plate but falls short, so Sana slides it over to her.

“No coffee today,” Mina notes.

“No.” Sana doesn’t look too closely, but at Mina’s uncharacteristically unruly hair, she asks, “Did Momo ask you to sleep on the couch?”

Mina narrows her eyes at Sana. “No. And for the record, you look horrible, too.”

Sana smiles ruefully and shrugs, admitting with what she thinks is light-heartedness, “I don’t sleep well when you’re not around.”

Mina mulls over this for a moment. She eats primly, cutting up bite-sized pieces of egg, toast and tomato before having a bit of all in one forkful.

Finally, she quietly confesses, “Me neither.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I promise to be more forthcoming with my feelings.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” Mina says, but she’s smiling.

“And I’ll try to be better. I want –” Sana blinks at the alarming prick of tears, “I want to be deserving of you.”

The line of Mina’s jaw is rigid and severe. “I was angry. I didn’t mean what I said last night, Sana.”

“No, but you’re right,” Sana laughs helplessly.

“Sana,” Mina’s voice has gone impossibly soft. It forces Sana to look up at her. “Just because you’re the universe’s plaything doesn’t mean you’re any less of a person. Why would you ever think you’re undeserving? Of _me_?”

“Well – Jesus, you’re really going to make me say it – you’re great. You’re smart and pretty and patient, and you’re just everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Maybe not as patient as you’d like,” Mina jokes, but the wounds from last night are still fresh, and it comes out tense and flat.

“That’s not a bad thing. I know I’m hard to love.”

“No, actually,” Mina says. “It’s easy. Being with you is the hard part."

“I’m s–”

“What did I say about apologies?” Mina cuts in sharply.

Sana looks sheepish. Mina sighs, then says, “Let’s just eat and go back to bed after this. I’m exhausted.”

And they do just that, Mina taking Sana’s hand and only letting go to undress herself. Sana helps, tugs at the hairband holding Mina’s hair up until it falls loose and neatening it with her fingers. Mina gives her a kiss to the corner of her lips, then her chin, for the effort.

“You’re good enough,” Mina murmurs, fingers skimming along Sana’s jaw. “You’re always good enough.”

Then they fall into bed and spend the rest of the day ignoring calls and sleeping pressed up to each other.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 26, Sana realises marriage isn't all happiness.

**2****; in front of you**

** Mina & Sana **

(Mina is 30, Sana is 31) 

Sana takes the rest of the evening off with promises of a candlelit dinner and wine. She comes home to a dark house, tugs off her scarf to drape it over the back of a chair. Sees that Mina’s shoes are where they usually are, painstakingly arranged.

“Mina?” she calls, pads into their bedroom when she finds the kitchen empty. There’s a pinch of disappointment – no candlelit dinner, then.

She hears soft music from their bedroom, muted by the shut door. Inside, their standing lamp emits a hazy orange light. The rest of the room is darkness and shadows.

Sana swallows, spies movement under the bathroom door and tries again, “Mina?”

Her voice comes out strangled and nervous. Her insides feel twisted, but it’s not a bad feeling altogether. Listening to it more clearly now, the song is a French crooning, and Sana has no idea what it’s about.

“In here,” Mina replies, from the bathroom.

“I’m home,” Sana says. Unsure of herself in a manner she has never been before, not in her own bedroom, she sits at the foot of the bed. Twists the hem of her sleeves in her laps.

“In a minute.”

Sana waits, feels herself growing drowsy, with the dim light and the music. She gets comfortable enough to lean back, braces herself partly upright with an elbow. She’s almost asleep when Mina emerges from the bathroom in a little black slip and little else.

The material is glossy, catches light with every movement, every breath. The hemline is black lace, the kind that itches and bothers the skin. But it has a pretty effect. Sana feels her mouth go dry.

A _very_ pretty effect.

Mina’s hair is simple – let loose and down her back almost as if not a single care had been put into it. Sana feels suddenly self-conscious in an old, faded pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

Mina’s face is mostly bare. Sana can see every beauty mark, the little speck of discoloured skin riding high on her cheekbone, and wishes to chase after them with her lips.

“Welcome home, Satang,” Mina says, low and thrumming.

Sana forces herself upright at once. Mina laughs at the look on Sana’s face, smug.

“Oh, my god. This – this is,” Sana starts, has to wet her lips halfway through when Mina begins to come close. Her slip rucks further up her thigh with every step.

Mina pushes her feet apart, steps into the vee of her thighs and places a hand on Sana’s shoulder. The other hand, she closes over Sana’s mouth. Damp breath tickles her palm.

“Darling, stop talking.”

Sana nods against her hand. Satisfied, Mina removes her hand, only to press gently down on Sana’s shoulder. At the sweet, insistent pressure, Sana lets herself be pushed onto bed.

And Sana knows she said she won’t speak, but she can’t help the words, more an exhalation than anything else: “Wow.” Her hand reaches out to curve around Mina’s hip, over the fabric. It is as Sana expected – silk.

Sana feels a sudden desire to seize the fabric, crush it between fingers, tear it open, seam by seam. She shudders. Puts the notion to bed.

Instead, she looks up at Mina and asks, “For me?”

Mina laughs, crawls over Sana so her hair falls like a perfumed curtain all around them. There is no one else, nor will there ever be, for either of them. “Who else?”

This is better than any candlelit dinner, better than any aged wine. This is _so _much better. Sana knows it’s on her face because Mina looks almost relieved when she finally, _finally_ leans in and kisses her. Chastely at first, as she means to tease. Then open-mouthed and filthy.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”

They take their time with it. Burn through the whole night and then some. By the end of it, the slip’s abandoned on the floor and the world's gone quiet. Or maybe they've each gone deaf with pleasure.

Later, sated and spent, Mina admits, “I’d wanted to dance for you.”

Sana traces the line of Mina’s ribs. Mina squirms, ticklish. “Should have started with that, then.”

“I wanted to. Then I saw your face, how you looked at me, and I knew I couldn’t wait.”

Sana shrugs. “I’m irresistible.”

A pinch, not hard enough to hurt. Then, a tired laugh. “You’re missing out. I’m quite an accomplished dancer, you know.”

Sana knows. It’s hard to forget, what with the hard lines of Mina’s body and her innate elegance. It’d been a dream, long ago, to pursue dance. It still feels like a dream now.

“You still can dance,” Sana points out. “If you want to, that is.”

Mina hums, snuggles closer. She kisses Sana’s ear. “Maybe later. I don’t think I can stand right now.”

At Sana’s snicker, she says, “Oh, get that shit-eating grin off your face.”

Mina’s fingers run through her sweat-slick hair. Sana moves to lie her head on Mina’s chest, her arm thrown carelessly over and across Mina’s waist.

“Your hair’s getting long,” she comments idly.

When Mina speaks, her chest rumbles under Sana’s ear. Sana grunts as Mina tugs at her hair, scalp aching pleasantly.

“You gonna cut it for me?”

Mina’s hand pauses. Her voice is surprised. “You want me to?”

“I trust you to.”

“But you’re so _touchy_ about your hair.”

“And I do like it when you touch me, so.”

Mina chuckles warmly. Sana thinks she feels lips press to the crown of her head.

“It’s your turn, next year,” Mina tells her, and Sana can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m partial to lingerie, myself. And, if you do it right, handcuffs.”

Sana laughs, blushes despite herself. “Duly noted.”

(Mina is 30, Sana is 31)

They’re in the kitchen preparing dinner together when Sana asks, “Do you sometimes think you should have married Momo instead?”

There’s nothing to it, simply curiosity.

Mina, chopping celery and bell peppers, in an apron Sana had helped her into, throws her a sidelong glance and says, “What?”

Sana’s offhand shrug serves to tell Mina she’s not mad, nor will she be. And yet, she refuses to meet Mina’s eyes, preferring instead to focus at her task of peeling potatoes. Their kitchen is small; any movement has Mina brushing up against Sana.

“Maybe,” Mina replies.

Sana stiffens, then nods sharply. Mina’s only being honest. She can appreciate honesty.

“It would definitely be easier.” Mina continues dicing the bell peppers, using the flat of her blade to set aside any seeds. It occurs to Sana just then that she has no idea what they’re cooking.

Then Mina puts the knife down. Sana thinks to apologise, wonders if she’d spoilt this nice evening mood that has become something of a luxury that can scarcely afford, given Mina’s busy schedule.

But, before she opens her mouth, Mina says, “But for some reason, I chose you.”

She’s smiling. Coming in close even when she doesn’t have to because their kitchen makes any small thing possible.

Sana stills. Outside, it smells of rain – leftovers from the brief afternoon shower. Bands of gold-orange light push through their lace curtains. bright enough to set something alight. It touches along Mina’s wispy hair, licks half her face, and Sana is almost certain her heart will never let her forget this moment.

At Sana’s stricken face, Mina laughs, and it seems to fill the room. Sana forgets, for a moment, just what they are talking about. Until Mina presses her palm to Sana’s cheek, looks at her intently there in their kitchen, and reminds her gently, “We’re married. I kind of have an obligation not to be in love with anyone else.”

Sana says, stupidly, “Your hand smells like olive oil.”

(Mina is 32, Sana is 33)

“_Professor_.”

Mina shivers, hair standing on the skin all along her forearms. Sana noses at the underside of her jaw, then nips at it. Teases the flesh gently with teeth.

Sana grins, pleased. “You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you professor.”

“You’re so –,” a gasp, a blush, “lewd!”

“Darling,” Sana drawls, “I’m only what you want me to be.”

This whole incident came about when Mina came home announcing she’d been offered a post to teach at a neighbouring university. Sana had taken her up into her arms and lifted her off her feet and then they both went tumbling onto the kitchen island and continued on from there, leaving a trail of hastily-shed clothing.

Now at the shell of Mina’s red ear, Sana says, “Gosh, you’re so much better than a pervert old man with a handlebar moustache.”

“What professors have you been seeing? And I’m not even a professor yet, I’m a –” Mina doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Sana doesn’t let her. “Oh,” she complains, high and breathy, “you’re _horrible_.”

“I know. Will you teach me how to be good, _professor_?” Sana says, puts enough of a throaty growl into it that Mina, eyes suddenly dark and determined, flips them over.

“I’m not going to show you any mercy,” Mina warns. The whites of her eyes are almost swallowed whole.

“Oh,” Sana breathes, feels her heart seize up at how _pretty_ Mina is, all messy hair and kissed lips. Her hands reach for the thighs straddling her hips. “Please, don’t hold back.”

The first few days of her tenure are spent in turtlenecks and the application of too much concealer. But Mina’s never been as steadfast in her duties, and Sana, never as happy.

“Let me just write it down somewhere before I forget; _this year’s anniversary – roleplay._”

That earns her a smack to her arm and a bruising kiss.

(Mina is 33, Sana is 34)

Mina hisses at the livid purple splotches around Sana’s ribs. Sana sits on the lip of the tub breathing slowly through her mouth as Mina’s gentle hands probe at her hurt ribs. Mina hits a particularly tender spot and Sana inhales sharply, only to regret it when the pain sharpens and she hunches over. Shuts her eyes tightly against the bile rising fast up her throat.

“Well, you’re no good to anyone like this,” Mina _tsk_s, having completed her assessment. Then, softly, "You gonna throw up?"

Sana shakes her head violently. Then, promptly twists to the side to retch. Mina steps back, arms raised.

Mina’s in an evening gown, plum-coloured and daring with a low-cut back. Her earrings are the simple crystal ones her father had bought her many years prior. Her hair is coiffed and – well, she’s trying to make an impression.

Mina’s disappointed, Sana can tell. She’d promised to come with, to be her plus-one. It’s to be Sana’s first formal introduction to Mina’s world – esteemed academics and overzealous post-graduates talking anything from weather to the economy.

Mina wets a washcloth and sluices it along the bruising. “Not broken, thankfully.”

Sana studies Mina’s expression carefully. “Huh?”

“Your ribs.”

“Oh.”

Mina is quietly cleaning up the first aid supplies, then returns to the sink, touching up her makeup in front of the mirror. Sana sits there and watches her.

“I can still go,” Sana offers, after a while.

Mina sighs, sets her brush down. “No, you can’t. You can barely stand.”

“But I promised.”

“_And_ if you go, someone might call social services on me,” Mina says over her, glancing pointedly on the bruise winging Sana’s cheek.

“You can’t go alone.”

“I’m not going alone. I called Momo.”

“Oh.”

Mina turns to see Sana staring at her dirtied feet. She says, “Don’t be like that. I called her when you didn’t show.”

Sana runs her tongue over her teeth, tames her expression into something bland and inoffensive, and nods. “Sure.”

Mina frowns at the mono-syllabic reply. “I wouldn’t have done this if it weren’t important to me. You know that.”

“I know. How are you going to introduce her to your colleagues? ‘Hi, this is my ex-girlfriend’?”

“No,” Mina says, heatedly, “she’s coming as my friend. My best friend.”

Sana scoffs, churlishly. She knows she’s being childish, but the pain has made her disagreeable. And she had actually been looking forward to meeting Mina’s co-workers. Lately, she’s feeling as though she doesn’t see much of her, and Sana had intended to amend that.

She hears Mina sigh. Then, Mina says, softening her tone, “It’ll only be for tonight. I’ll be back before you know it.” Mina kisses her smarting cheek. “You should rest. There’ll be other functions.”

When Sana doesn’t say anything, Mina simply runs her fingers through Sana’s hair. In and out, in and out. Sana shuts her eyes, her body eases and leans forward into Mina’s, relenting.

“Let’s not fight about this. You can help me out of this dress later,” Mina tells her, teasing a bit.

Sana nods into Mina’s belly. She feels exhausted, suddenly. She placidly agrees, “Okay.”

Mina helps her get into bed and hand-feeds her a peanut-butter sandwich before making her swallow painkillers with a glass of water.

She glances at her watch then, says, “Okay, I’m running late. Momo’s already waiting for me downstairs. See you later, okay.”

Sana nods, a little loopy from the painkillers, and waves at her. Her ribs feel better now, and they’re not broken, but Sana suspects something else might be.

(Mina is 34, Sana is 26)

When Sana steps into their kitchen, Mina is rinsing carrots in the sink. Their kitchen looks different — Sana supposes it’s been renovated. Their old square dining table is gone, replaced by a kitchen island with a white granite countertop that’s full of open cookbooks and groceries. The cupboards are freshly-coated with varnish. And they have a new, complicated-looking tap installed and a new dishrack. The only things Sana recognises are their mugs, a pair of cooking chopsticks and a sturdy-looking pot, which is filled three-quarters of the way with water on the unlit stove.

Sana had found herself in the park nearby, fortunately, and a kind girl had lent her a picnic mat while out on a hike with some friends. She looked sympathetic as she handed over the folded mat. Sana did not even bother to explain herself.

She uttered a quick thanks and hoped she still lived in the same place. Their passcode never changes, for Sana’s sake. Mina had joked about getting her details tattooed onto her. Sana stressed that the only thing worse than finding a naked person in your backyard is a naked person tattooed with their own personal details.

Sana had rifled through their wardrobe in their mostly unchanged bedroom for a change of clothes, putting on an oversized flannel shirt and some faded jeans. There are some new additions, memorabilia that hasn’t yet occurred in Sana’s time. She avoids looking at them. Wants to preserve the integrity of that moment for when it comes and not when she expects it to.

She makes her footsteps loud enough for Mina to hear as she enters the kitchen.

“That was fast,” Mina’s saying, turning, when she stops mid-step.

Mina looks older. A little more worn and weary than the Mina Sana had left in her timeline. She’s holding a carrot in one hand and a kitchen knife in another. Slowly, she puts them back into the sink. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Sana tries, awkward.

Mina’s wearing a pale yellow pullover and sweatpants. Her hair is tossed up her head in a loose bun. But the years have been kind on her; she still looks lovely and Sana feels her heart squeeze and turn-over in her chest. She’s relieved that they’re still together, even after these years.

“Hi,” Mina says, equally awkward. Then she laughs, but something is off. There’s an edge to her voice, and a brittleness to her laughter that makes it sound as if her voice might break and she might start crying. She leans her hip into the sink behind her and shakes her head, pushing up hair that has fallen into her face. “I’m sorry. It’s just — I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. Where are you from?”

“I’m from the past.”

“That explains it.” Mina smiles at her. Though the smile is sad. Then she notices the flannel shirt and says, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

“Oh,” Sana says, looking down at the shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“This is weird,” Mina laughs. She's only half joking when she says, “Shouldn’t you be calling me unnie?”

“You want me to? That could be fun,” Sana grins, but it's bland and distracted.

She looks around the kitchen but does not dare to explore. It all feels alien to her. Their kitchen is small, personable. This is a new space. Filled with fancy gadgets she’s not even sure she knows how to operate. That, and she worries she might break something if she touches it.

Mina follows her line of sight around the kitchen. The bare lightbulb is gone. In its place are minimalistic wall-mounted LED fixtures. “We got the kitchen renovated. Do you like it?”

“It’s very…different,” Sana says.

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

“How far ahead am I?”

“Nine years.”

“And where am I, in this time?”

“You’re at the supermarket on a grocery run. My parents are coming over for dinner.”

Sana nods at this new piece of information. Parents. She misses it at first, but then in her peripherals something on Mina’s finger glints. There’s a ring. A simple platinum band on Mina’s ring finger.

Her breath catches. “We’re married?”

“Oh,” Mina glances down at her hand braced on the edge of the sink. “Yeah.”

“Who proposed?”

Mina laughs, raises a brow. “Wanna guess?”

“Not me?”

“I won’t ruin the surprise.”

Sana smiles. She’s not sure what it means, but she feels happy. But marriage could mean anything. Marriage could also be unhappiness. And Mina looks exhausted that Sana can’t help but ask. She _needs _to know.

“Is everything alright? You and me. Are we alright?”

Mina is quiet for a moment, and she brings her hand up to twist the ring about her finger, pensive. Then, finally, with a smile that’s stretched thin, she asks, “What gave it away?”

Sana tightens her jaw. She can always tell when Mina is upset. It’s the same way she knows when Mina’s about to wake, or if she’s still asleep in her own timeline. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Mina shakes her head. “This is not — it’s not something you should concern yourself with.”

“Yet,” Sana points out. “Please. I want to know.”

“We’re thinking about adopting. Or surrogacy.”

It’s a lot to process. Sana looks up sharply from the countertop. “But?” she prompts, softly.

“You want that for me. Because this condition you have — we don’t know much about it. We don’t know if it’ll affect your lifespan, and you’re mobile now so it’s not as bad but that won’t always be the case, you know?”

“I know.”

“And you,” Mina pushes herself forward, closer to where Sana stands. “You want this for me. You don’t want me to be alone, should anything happen.”

It seems very like her, Sana will admit. She did know that what they have is fragile and tenuous. Her condition makes it so. What if one day she lands in the path of an oncoming car, or a snowstorm? What if – ?

Mina goes on, and now Sana sees that she is very afraid. Afraid for Sana, afraid for herself, afraid for this life they had so carefully built together, afraid of what comes after. Her eyes are wet. “You know, you made me a promise. You promised to always come back to me. But I keep on thinking: there’s no way you can promise that. What if one day you can’t? You came back once, in the middle of the night, and you woke me up and made me this promise. What the hell am I supposed to think about it? Do I _even _want to think about it?”

Sana doesn’t answer.

“You must have seen something. You must _know _something. But you won’t tell me. Do you know how much that frustrates me?” Mina’s voice has dropped into something soft and pleading. Her hand is still damp when she puts it atop Sana’s on the counter. She’s asking for something, it’s in her eyes. But Sana doesn’t know if she can give it to her. Doesn’t know if she _should_.

She never wanted this. She clears her throat, asks, “When was this?”

“What?”

“When did I make you this promise?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“I know, but I — I have to know.”

Mina leans into her instead, burying her face into Sana’s neck, inhaling. Sana stiffens, but this is Mina, and this will always be Mina. Sana loves all of her — past, present and future. So she gathers Mina, this Mina who seems to need her most, who is crumbling fast, in her arms and holds her close. She feels Mina’s breath, made shaky with tears, at her neck.

“I’m scared, Sana,” Mina breathes. “You scare me.”

Sana blinks away tears. Feels her chest heavy with grief and something else, a sense of dreaded certainty, maybe; a finality. “I’m sorry.”

When Sana returns, Mina is up. She’s brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed when Sana comes into the room, her footsteps heavy. She sits on the edge of their bed.

“Hey,” Mina says through a mouth full of a toothpaste.

Sana doesn’t reply, afraid of what she’ll say. She’s not sure what even to say. Perhaps this is how it must be. Shoulder the burden alone. Perhaps her future self had gotten it right after all. She’s too distracted and drained by the day’s events that she doesn’t realise Mina’s talking to her until a little later.

Mina spits into the sink and rinses her mouth. Wipes at it with a face towel afterward.

“Sana? Hey, you okay?”

Sana jolts at Mina’s touch to her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But Mina knows. She always does. Sana’s eyes are shadowed and she’s being uncharacteristically taciturn. So Mina gently asks, “What’s wrong?”

Sana attempts an anaemic smile. She’ll make an effort, for Mina. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

She reaches for Mina’s hips, wraps her arms around and pulls her close to press her face into Mina’s belly. It’s extremely intimate, and Mina would usually not tolerate such a stunt. She noses the fabric of Mina’s shirt.

Mina’s fretting hands have settled on her shoulders, rubbing up and down to soothe her. But it does little to help; does little to shake off this bad feeling settling in her chest, sticking stubbornly to her ribs.

(Mina is 34, Sana is 35)

“I don’t think your parents like me very much.”

Mina’s eyes flick to where Sana’s lounging on the bed, sat up against the headrest, way too casual to be anything but. Mina’s busy undoing the complicated updo she’d styled her hair in for the evening. And Sana will admit that the milk-white skin of Mina’s neck is making this conversation something not even worth bringing up.

Mina lifts a brow. Removes a bobby pin and the rest of her soft, brown hair comes tumbling down. “Why do you say that?”

Perhaps it was the confused, bordering on disbelief, looks she received when Mina settled her hand atop hers on the dining table, or the barbed, thinly-veiled insults that came by way of comparison and the snooty way they regarded their modest flat. Sana had slipped her hand out from under Mina’s under the guise of reaching for her wineglass.

Sana shrugs. Doesn’t really want to start a fight. She’s effectively drained, condescending parent-in-laws or no.

“Nonsense,” is Mina’s placating, amiable reply. “They love you.”

“Well, you have to say that,” Sana tells her, unable to muster any bite to her voice. She’s far too tired, too old for that. “You’re the neutral party.”

Mina hums, non-committal. Sana watches her go about her motions – change into her pyjamas (a long-sleeved baseball shirt in these chilly nights), brush her teeth and comb her hair out – before settling into bed.

Sana fully expects Mina to just turn away and go to sleep, knowing how tired she’s been lately with the demands of her new job. But Mina simply shifts closer, leans into the length of Sana’s arm. Sana blinks, other arm reaching over to curl into the hem of Mina’s shirt at her hip. Slip fingers underneath, seeking warm skin.

“Do my parents really make you so miserable?”

Sana considers this, then shakes her head. “No, not miserable. Inferior maybe.”

Mina frowns. She traces along the collar of Sana’s ratty t-shirt. “Why inferior?”

“I just – they’re just really accomplished.”

“Sure, but are they time-travellers?”

Sana smiles, “You make it sound like it’s a good thing.”

“It’s you,” Mina tells her, wine-drunk and lovely. Simple as that.

They don’t speak much afterward, and Sana thinks Mina’d fallen asleep until she asks, gently, “Do you miss your parents?”

Sana won’t usually disclose much about her parents. She’d talk about her upbringing, her childhood home, but never about her parents. But maybe it’s the wine, or the night, or the thought that if she could not tell Mina in the safety and privacy of their shared bedroom, then she really could not tell anybody.

So, Sana says, “Sometimes.” Then adds, “I miss my mom.”

This is new. Mina treads carefully. “But not your dad?”

“We weren’t – we weren’t really close. He was a stubborn man. Hard to get to know.”

“Kind of like you?” Mina says, only half-teasing. When Sana doesn’t immediately reply, Mina thinks to apologise, thinks she’d said the wrong thing.

But Sana only laughs, soundless. “My mom used to say the same thing. She said I took after him.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then confesses almost childishly: “He was mean. He wasn’t a good person, Mina.”

“That’s where the both of you differ, then,” Mina murmurs, sitting up. She takes Sana’s face in her hands, holds her there, and says, “Because I never knew you to be a bad person, Sana.”

Sana feels like a foolish, silly mess when her eyes grow hot and the prick of tears comes. “Jeez, Mitang. You’ve made me cry,” she jests, voice trembling, embarrassed.

Mina laughs. Strokes the skin under Sana’s eyes with her thumbs. She makes amends, says, “I’m sorry.” Then lowers her voice and says, “I’m so sorry, Sana.”

(and it was only partly for making Sana cry. It was an apology, on the universe’s behalf, for all the bad that's been done to her.)

Sana’s hands reach up to clasp Mina’s. She’s looking at Mina very gently, very tenderly. Asking for everything and nothing all at once. And it’s the middle of the night but it feels like sunlight is breaking all around them. How easily Sana disarms her.

“I was here earlier, weren’t I?”

Mina swallows, nods. Sana shuts her eyes, leans her forehead against Mina’s. Then proceeds to kiss her there, just above her brow. 

When Sana speaks, her voice is low and amused and so very fond. Mina feels her lips part against her skin. “Don’t be sorry. You’ve made everything so much better.”

(Mina is 37, Sana is 38)

“You need to take it easy,” Mina tells her.

She's sat on the back of Sana’s lower back, kneading particularly relentless thumbs into Sana’s back. The muscles there tight, stubborn, unwilling to give to Mina’s unyielding hands.

She presses a bit too hard on a sore spot and Sana clutches at the sheets, groans. She jerks under Mina, who almost falls off her back at the abrupt shift. She grasps Sana’s shoulders for balance, but also to steady Sana. Sana grits her teeth.

“Wow, you were really going to buck me like some wild horse,” Mina mutters, mildly impressed.

Sana’s backaches are always worse in the colder weather. It gets pretty bad, but Mina’s always there to slap cooling patches to her back and help work out the knots there. For which Sana is _eternally _grateful.

“Mitang,” Sana whines, though it comes out hoarse and undignified, “could you be – I don’t know – _gentler_?”

“Well, that’s what you get for throwing out your back. Jeongyeon and Nayeon could manage just fine without your help, you know.”

Sana says nothing, lets out a breath.

“But you just weren’t satisfied with packing duty, huh.” Another sore spot. “Needed to show off, didn’t you?” And another.

Sana groans into the pillow, shuts her eyes, gasps, “_Darling_.”

And the pressure is gone. All that’s left are tentative fingertips tapping once on each vertebra of her spine. Finally, “Will you take it easy?”

“Yes,” Sana submits, breathless.

“Good,” Mina says, drops a kiss to Sana’s nape, then her weight disappears from Sana’s back. “Stay here. I think some heated oil should help.”

Sana sighs. It’s going to be a long night, but Mina’s relatively gentle touch makes up for the aches and pains.

(Mina is <strike>38</strike> ageless, Sana is 39)

Sana’s up reading a mystery-murder novel by the time the lock whirrs and Mina stumbles in. Her arms are laden with her book bag, laptop bag, document bag – honestly, Sana never understood why she doesn’t just have _one _bag for everything – and she’s struggling to take off her shoes. Her hair’s windblown and her blouse’s all wrinkled and creased from the journey home.

Sana watches her, indulges herself for several seconds before going to help her. She unburdens Mina of her many bags, sets them on the floor and bends to gently remove Mina’s shoe from her foot. Mina had managed to take the other off by herself. Sana makes a face at the reddened skin behind her ankle where the shoe had pinched her, despite the pantyhose Mina had been wearing.

She slips a thumb soothingly along the angry blister. Mina jolts.

She’d obviously been in a rush to reach home – her reading glasses are still on her face, and she would typically never be caught dead wearing those in public outside of her office or home (her sight’s failing her, poor thing). And she’s winded, eyes narrowed, looking down at Sana as though she hasn’t the time for Sana’s silly antics.

But for Sana, it’d been nothing but appreciation. Simple, pure, unadulterated appreciation. Perhaps to the point of worship, even. And Mina hasn’t yanked her foot free, so Sana leans down to press a damp kiss to her ankle, just behind the ball joint.

The years have definitely made her bolder.

Mina hisses, jerks. Has to hold the wall to keep herself steady.

Sana gets to her knees, wraps firm arms around Mina’s leg and begins to run her nails lightly over the sheer fabric.

“Right _now_? Here? Really?” Mina says, exasperated. “I just got home, Sana.”

“You need a few minutes?” Sana offers, generously.

Somehow, that offends Mina, who takes that as a jibe at her age. Sana wishes to scoff; they’re not even _that _old. But she’s otherwise preoccupied, so. Sana smiles at Mina’s indignant silence.

Sana applies her mouth next, pressing kisses up along Mina’s knee, calf, thigh. If her teeth catch on the fabric, it’s not by accident. Her fingers have slipped upward, arrived at the humid dark of Mina’s inner thigh under her skirt.

And god, that _skirt._ Tight and strict and no-nonsense and _begging_ for Sana to just tear it open.

But she knows how Mina would not appreciate that. So she opts for simply foregoing the skirt, reaches up and _rips_.

Mina’s mouth falls open. “D – did you just?”

A younger Sana may have blushed, but now the grin on Sana’s face can only be known to be incorrigible and salacious. “I did.”

“Sana!”

Sana kisses the back of her upper thigh. The hem of the skirt now brushes against her head. “Relax,” she makes a point to murmur against skin, appeasing, “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Mina huffs. And for a second, Sana hesitates. Thinks to halt her ministrations to sit back on her haunches and see if maybe she’d gone too far. But then a hand finds Sana’s hair and fingers are winding in and out of her hair, nails raking her scalp.

When her kisses go higher, she hears Mina exhale. Her breaths quiver. She repositions them so Mina’s back is fully against the wall, knees slightly bent. Every kiss after feels like a, ‘thank you’.

In the end, they migrate to the bed with the intention to continue. But the moment Mina’s head hits the soft sheets, she yawns into her hand. Sana, midway through taking off her shirt, feigns offense.

“Okay, I know I’m not what I used to be but, still,” she says, in mock hurt.

Mina laughs, a short, breathless sound. Sana wishes to kiss the lines of her face. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be attentive, promise.”

Her eyes are half-lidded, and her eyes and mouth are hard-lined with exhaustion. Sana worries her lip. Leans down to kiss along her jaw.

“We can just sleep,” Sana suggests, kindly.

Mina’s been working long days recently. Sometimes even late into the night at home, grading papers and preparing her slides and whatnot. Sana slides off Mina to lie next to her. Mina makes a confused sound at the back of her throat. Her hand reaches out and slaps clumsily at Sana’s thigh.

“That’s not fair,” she says. “I didn’t do you.”

Sana kisses Mina’s cheek. “Next time, maybe.”

“Not tonight?” Mina asks, unsure.

“Not tonight,” Sana assures.

At that, Mina turns her face into the pillow and groans, loud and long. Her glasses are on the nightstand and her shirt’s mostly unbuttoned by now. Her pantyhose is ripped and ruined, but Sana figures Mina doesn’t really mind. What’s been taken is returned tenfold.

Sana gets up to turn off the light, coaxes Mina out of her work clothes. Mina mumbles something.

“What?” Sana asks, coming closer.

“I said,” Mina repeats, face mostly hidden. Her hand blindly seeks out Sana’s and, upon finding it, clutches it tight. Her thumb strokes along the meat of Sana’s palm, “I think I’m getting old. Thank you.”

The admission is rare as it is amusing. Sana tucks hair behind Mina’s ear, says, “Darling, you’re never too old for me.”

“Ha,” comes the unimpressed reply. “Come to bed with me.”

Sana doesn’t need to be told twice. 


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 41, Sana knows she's going to die.

**3; the presence of absence**

** Sana **

(Sana is 35)

She comes upon her kitchen, except it’s not her kitchen. There’s a gouge in the lacquered wood where she had left it immaculate. A shoddy-looking rug soaking up water leaking under the sink. A crudely-drawn family of three ambiguous stick figures in crayon pinned up on the fridge. Flowers with white petals in a blue vase by the window and lace curtains, newly installed. Familiar and unfamiliar in turns.

But it’s the blood on the floors that she fixates on. Left long enough that some of it’s sticky and congealed and will definitely stain. There are imprints to suggest someone’s been kneeling in it. And it’s _blood_. Someone somewhere needs it, doesn’t have enough of it, is _dying_. Surely no one could have lost that much blood and lived.

Sana panics. A bad feeling curdles in her gut. She races around the house in the nude, disliking how her footsteps echo. _mina,_ she thinks. _mina. _

She’s yelling, and she’s moving so fast so suddenly she’s dizzy. She stumbles up the steps into their bedroom, where a light is on in the bathroom, but no one’s there. Her phone is on the nightstand, so she snatches it up and calls Mina.

She tears into the study next, taking the phone along with her. Again, the room is vacant and messy, as though someone had left in a great hurry.

The call goes to voice mail. Sana tries again.

When the second and third call yields no results, just an automated voice telling her to leave a message, she calls Jeongyeon.

When the call gets through, the relief is so immense that her legs threaten to give beneath her. She catches herself on the back of Mina’s swivel chair.

“Jeongyeon?” she says, timidly.

“Sana,” Jeongyeon’s voice is shaky and low. Sana has never heard it like that. There’s a lot of commotion on Jeongyeon’s side, sounds like sirens, yelling, and someone’s – a small child, sounds like – wailing in the back. “Sana. Where are you?”

“I’m at home. What’s going on? Where’s everybody? Mina – _where’s Mina_?”

“Sana,” Jeongyeon’s saying, speaking over Sana, “stay there, okay? I’m – I’m coming to get you. Just stay there. Stay –”

Then Sana’s gone. Snatched free from this time and returned to her own, where she finds Mina asleep, wakes her and holds her tight.

Mina starts rather ungracefully, squinting in the dark as Sana shakes. Hands slow to keep up in her sleep-addled state. She smells like sweat, like sleep, like everything that’s ever gone right in Sana’s life. Sana wants nothing more than to capitalise on this closeness.

They begin to move in the dark. Desperate. Sana leaves bruises, bites, scratches – anything to say: _i was here. i did this_.

Mina, fumbling, blinking, stills the hand at her chest with hers. She’s yet to wake and already she’s breathless. “Stop.”

Sana stiffens, then nods. Drops her head into Mina’s chest. Mouths an apology into her collarbone. Home is where you lay your head, after all.

Sana smells like blood and aching loneliness, and she knows Mina can smell it, too. There’s a question in the slant of Mina’s brows, in the hand that cards through her hair.

Sana shakes her head. “Tomorrow,” she tells her. “Tomorrow.”

Mina doesn’t sleep, either.

(Sana is 9, Sana is 36)

Sana is back at her childhood home, sometime in the evening. The trees are stripped of leaves, this late in the season, and it’s bitterly cold. She finds a newspaper in the rubbish bin at the bus-stop and sees that she’s back twenty-seven years.

She recalls the date. She’d been able to time-travel for less than a year, and it’s already given her anxiety. She’s afraid her friends might find her nude in the school bushes, or she’ll suddenly disappear during class, leaving behind a pool of crumpled uniform.

Nine-year-old Sana hides mostly in her room, where the walls are thin and she hears her parents argue how best to proceed with this – disorder. Her mother refuses to use that term, because that’ll mean admitting something _is _wrong with Sana. Her father is less kind.

On this date, though, nine-year-old Sana is at home alone. The sole keeper of her house whilst her parents are away to visit her ailing grandmother for the night.

Sana lands on her back, and lays there for several moments waiting for breath to return to her lungs. A head peeks out, fingers curling over the bedframe. The bland light of her room falls over them. Sana sees cream walls with white trimming. A collection of glass bottles, coloured darkly, line the sill. Outside, past the screen mesh, the sun is violently orange.

Sana groans. Landing on her back never gets easier. “You’re blocking my view.”

“Of the ceiling?”

“Yes.”

Nine-year-old Sana pulls a face. She’s wearing her fuzzy blue pyjamas and her hair’s quite long – Sana remembers her mother finally allowing her to grow it out. “You’re weird.”

“I know. Gosh, you’re tiny. Are you alone?”

“Yes, don’t you know that already?”

“I do,” Sana says, sits up. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? Come on, help me up and get me some clothes.”

Sana cooks dinner – a selection of comfort foods like instant noodles and spam. She no longer needs a chair to reach the high shelf, where she knows her mom keeps the good stuff, and young Sana is looking at her like she’s the cool aunt who’s willing to bend the rules a little. They share conspiratorial giggles.

Nine-year-old Sana cracks eggs into the roiling broth. Sana thickly chops the green onions and makes them both hot chocolate. They eat together, Sana dressed in her mother’s old clothes, chiding younger-Sana not to shake her legs. Then, they clean-up together. Sana finds a new bottle of dish-soap under the sink, lemon-scented, and replenishes the old one next to the tap. Sana soaps the dishes, rinses it clean, then hands it over to her younger self to be wiped dry.

(and when younger Sana isn’t looking, she throws out all the bottles of liquor kept in the top shelf – not that it made much of a difference.)

After dinner, when Sana finds that she’s still there, they play cards. Younger-Sana teaches her how to play Uno again (since she forgot), tells her all about school, her friends, the latest gossip, things Sana can scarcely remember anymore. Their triviality comforts Sana. She still feels girlish in her mother's dark, silk robes, sitting in her childhood room.

Sana at nine is as self-absorbed as any nine-year-old can be. She doesn't really ask, not really curious about things that don't directly, immediately concern her. But maybe it's better that way. 

Hours later, she hears a car pull into the driveway. Hears the car-doors slam shut and her mother’s calling out her name, broken in two like: _Sa-Na!_

Her heart gives a little jolt, meaning to reply. It’s been so long since she’s heard her mother's voice. Something closes around her hand. When she looks down, it’s to younger-Sana’s frowning eyes, holding her hand. “Why are you crying?”

Sana sniffs, sputters out a laugh, then bends down to kiss her younger self on the head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Now, go on. Go to your mom; she’s calling for you.”

(Sana is 41)

This time, she’s at a field overgrown with reeds and soft grass that goes up to her shin, barely tickling her knees. It’s springtime, and the day is a balmy, lukewarm concession given how hot it’s been getting lately.

She recognises this place. Mina has rescued her from wintry nights here, waiting out the cold in her car at the adjacent parking lot. It’s a fond memory.

She looks around, expecting Mina, or a beaten-up silver sedan. Instead, though, she finds a girl, aged about fifteen, standing under a tree. It’s a strange tree, and it must have grown in Sana’s absence, because Sana would have remembered it. Its trunk and boughs are all gnarled and ugly, like it’s twisting in on itself. And despite the season, there’s little produce on its branches as well. What little leaves that grow are browned and wilted, and when a meagre wind blows, it takes some leaves with it.

Stranger still is the girl, a little on the lanky side, standing beneath the tree, with a wrapped package in her arms. Her hair is black and awfully straight, lends her something of a severe look. It hardly tousles in the wind. She’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and there’s a grey-and-white flannel shirt tied around her waist by the sleeves. Sana blinks, recognises the flannel to be Mina’s. It has gone soft and faded with use.

The girl looks, for a lack of a better word, bored. Like she’d spent a great deal of time waiting for Sana to show. And now that she has, is tempted to kick a fuss about it. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, fidgety.

But then the girl looks at her, at Sana’s thoughtful attempt at modesty by covering up her bits, and smiles. Sana sees her pearls of teeth and frowns, because it just seems _so _familiar, and she knows she’s seen it before, she _knows_.

And she gasps. “Tzuyu?”

Tzuyu looks almost shy. “Hi, mama.”

“You’re…you’re talking in full sentences,” Sana says, awed.

Tzuyu rolls her eyes, and – there it is. The resemblance to Mina is uncanny. “That’s because I’m sixteen.”

The burst of warmth in her chest, almost unbearably so, leaves her staring dumbly. Her heart stutters, and oh, how she wishes Mina could see how beautiful their little girl’s grown up to be. She wishes to pick Tzuyu up by the arms and swing her around the way she had done with a much younger Tzuyu – but it’s not possible now, and not appropriate. 

“And so you are,” is what Sana manages to say.

Tzuyu clears her throat, hands out the package of what seems to be clothes and a pair of open-toed sandals. Sana gratefully accepts them, “Thanks.”

Tzuyu nods and turns around to face the tree, fingers linked behind her back. Sana quickly pulls her trousers on, slips into a comfy, loose-fitting tunic and her sandals.

Once she’s decent, she untucks her hair out of her collar and asks, “Where’s your mom?”

“Asleep,” Tzuyu says. “She’s getting on in years.”

“I bet.”

A moment goes by. It’s awkward – both seem to be at a loss of what to say. Tzuyu looks at Sana’s wheat-coloured hair, dyed at Mina’s suggestion when Sana had been depressed about the fading colour of her own hair, how it had paled and silvered.

“Has your hair always been that colour?” Tzuyu asks, curious.

Sana smiles, surprised at the question. She touches the tips of her hair, “No. I had it dyed.”

“Why?”

“Your mom thought it’d look good on me.”

Tzuyu’s nose wrinkles, frankly admits, “You look old.”

Sana laughs aloud at that. “Maybe that was the point.”

“I don’t get it.”

Sana starts to explain, but then figures that they’re short on time and says, “Why don’t you ask your mom when you see her later. I’m sure she can explain it better than I can.”

“Okay,” Tzuyu says, reluctantly, but lets the matter drop entirely.

Sana looks around. “Where am I, now?”

Tzuyu looks down at their feet. Sana shifts uncomfortably at the pregnant pause. Finally, Tzuyu looks up. Her feet make muted, mushy sounds against the grass as she walks over them. Then, she throws her arms around Sana, and hugs her tight.

Sana struggles to return the hug, lets out a breathless laugh that eventually quietens down into nothing. She presses her face to Tzuyu’s hair, smells Mina’s shampoo, feels the chafing of fabric against her hand braced upon Tzuyu’s shoulder.

_i can’t wait,_ she thinks. _i can’t wait till we’re like this_.

“You’re not here, Mama,” Tzuyu tells her, pressed to her shoulder. “I miss you so much.”

Sana frowns, “What do you mean? Where did I go?”

Tzuyu pulls away. She looks pained. Her gaze shutters. She swallows visibly, squares her shoulders. There are no more rules, no unkept promises. Simply because Sana had never made that promise with Tzuyu to begin with. The pull in her gut returns, but not because of Sana’s affliction. Now, Sana is all-too-aware of how her heart breaks.

At the prolonged silence, Sana prompts, “Tzuyu?”

Finally, Tzuyu takes a deep breath, says, “You died, mama.”

(Mina is 41, Sana is 42)

Tzuyu has a fistful of sand in her hand. She waves it about and tosses loose bits of sand everywhere. It gets on Sana’s jumper and Tzuyu’s thermal long-johns and Sana laughs. But she catches Tzuyu’s flailing fist before she any sand gets in her eyes or mouth. Tzuyu’s incoherent babble sounds vaguely like a protest and her little, cold face is as close to offended as a three-year-old could get.

“Don’t sulk,” Sana tells her. “Here.” She uncurls her fist to accept the toy shovel Sana gives her.

Sana sits nearby on the cement curb that forms the perimeter of the sandbox while Tzuyu plays with her plastic sandcastle moulds. Mina is inside the house, sleeping. They had a lot to think about the past few days, so much so that they barely spoke and even then it was about menial chores like taking out the trash, or changing Tzuyu’s diapers. Mina didn’t tell her to arrange Tzuyu’s check-up, nor did she discuss with her about Tzuyu’s vaccination schedule.

Mina is distanced and melancholy most days. She sleeps longer hours and wakes up well after breakfast and spends most of her time working indoors, typing away at her laptop. Then she makes lunch. Things are usually better by dinner; the day is coming to an end but Sana is still here with her, and that should mean something. That’s a cause worthy of celebration.

But then they lie together on the bed and Mina rolls over to kiss her once before she gets up to switch off the lights to sleep. Even in the dark, Sana can tell Mina is waiting for her to say something, to complain, to yell at her to snap out of it, to call her selfish. But all there is an empty kind of silence. The kind that’s pervasive and enduring and sad. Finally, Mina sighs and turns away to lie on her side.

Nothing is easy but Mina is making everything harder.

Tzuyu calls her, tearing her away from her thoughts and bringing her back to the present. She’s been scooping sand into a mould for a time, distracted, and now it’s overfilled so Tzuyu’s batting at her hands to stop.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Tzuyu’s faced is pinched tight with frustration as she takes the fish-shaped mould from Sana to press into the sand with all of her puny weight.

When she’s done, she stands up, tottering a little on her feet. Smiles toothily at the vague imprint of a fish on the sand. Tzuyu beams up at Sana, and Sana smiles just as proudly in return. Suddenly, she’s overcome by deep sadness, deeper than any she’s felt, and it soaks into her bones and washes her soul with it. She wipes at her dripping nose. Laughs because Tzuyu’s nose is dripping as well. She beckons the girl forward with her arms.

“Come here,” she says, her voice ragged and rough with tears. “Come here, darling.”

Tzuyu seems to sense something is off (in some ways, Sana feels Tzuyu is more her child than Mina’s), so she waddles over on unbalanced feet and falls into Sana’s arms, trusting Sana to catch her. Her chin bumps Sana’s shoulder as she does. Sana laughs, holds the girl tight in her arms. Breathes harshly into Tzuyu’s curls.

“I don’t want to go,” Sana murmurs, even if Tzuyu doesn’t understand. “But I have to. I don’t want you to hate me when I do.”

Tzuyu squirms in her arms, wriggling for some room, so she can press her sandy palms to Sana’s cheek and mouth. Sana sputters at the grit of sand at her lips, laughs when she turns her head to the side to spit out the bits that’d gotten in her mouth.

She’s blowing raspberries into Tzuyu’s palms when Mina emerges from the house in a wool knit pullover over her pyjamas. Her hair is done in a braid today, and for some reason, Sana feels a little hopeful.

Mina doesn’t smile at her or greet her ‘good morning’s, but she grimaces and wraps her arms about herself and gasps: “It’s freezing! Come inside.”

Sana nods and whispers to Tzuyu to go pack up her stuff, helping the girl to her feet to collect her toys. Mina waits by the door and picks Tzuyu up to scatter wet, messy kisses about her face. A neighbourhood cat with spots (and bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain someone) comes up to greet them, arches its back up against Mina’s calf, almost too affectionate for its own good. Then goes about its way to catch unsuspecting mice and whatnot.

It’s toasty warm inside. The walls are a soft, diffused beige and Mina had insisted on the wood panelling, and well, of course she had been right about that. Sana already smells coffee and lunch as she drops Tzuyu’s canvas bag full of toys on the coffee table and wanders into the kitchen. Mina is holding Tzuyu against her hip, turning the tap on and testing the temperature.

“She should’ve been wearing gloves,” Mina says, disapprovingly, as she washes Tzuyu’s hands.

Sana takes a seat at the dining table. “She’s fine. She doesn’t like wearing them anyway. Can’t build proper sandcastles with mittens.”

Mina sets Tzuyu down once she’s content with the cleanliness of Tzuyu’s hands and nudges her Sana’s way. Tzuyu climbs up into Sana’s lap, squealing with delight when Sana bounces her knee. Sana can feel Mina watching her, so she looks up to grin at her. Mina returns an uneasy smile of her own; her eyes have gone soft and gentle and the corner of her lips twitch imperceptibly.

This, Mina thinks, is a life she could make her peace with, a life she could want. It’s not too much to ask for — all she needs is Sana, Tzuyu and more time.

(Mina is 41, Sana is 42)

Sunday rolls by too easily. It’s coming to mid-afternoon, but time feels liquid – either too slow or too fast, and little else between.

Sana is lying length-wise on the couch, back propped up against the armrest. Tzuyu is cradled in the crook of her elbow, dozing and still in her pyjamas. Mina is in the kitchen, mashing up a medley of vegetables for Tzuyu’s lunch.

Sana crosses her bony ankles, flips another page of her magazine. She's become far too skinny for Mina's liking.

Once all there is to do is plate the unenviable mash, Mina turns and rests the back of her hip against the counter. Watches Sana and Tzuyu long enough that it feels like she has something to say.

Sana, feeling Mina’s gaze, puts the magazine down on her chest. Lifts her brow in question.

“Sana,” Mina starts. Sana doesn’t know if she likes where this is going already. After a particularly bad trip that left Sana seizing on the floor, damn near frostbitten, Mina’s been restless. “Have you ever tried seeing someone for…your condition?”

That incident has left Sana weakened. And doctors and neurologists and whoever else with a medical degree Mina's been insisting she consult, all share the same prognosis. Sana would not last the next few seizures. They say she'll be lucky to see forty-five. Sana thinks she'll have won the lottery if they would just give her a moment's peace. She’s not going to die because of a seizure, or a burst aneurysm. She knows that. Of course, Mina is not too happy with how uncooperative and dismissive she’s being, either.

Sana doesn’t intend to have this conversation lying down – feels like Mina has too much of an advantage there – but she’s reluctant to unseat Tzuyu when she’s breathing softly and deeply like this.

She does try to shift herself into something of an incline, says uneasily, “I have. Years ago.”

“Who?”

“A specialist.”

Mina frowns. “When?”

“When I was in my teens. My father made me go.”

At the mention of that, Mina worries her lip. A white curl of steam rises behind her from leftover boiling water in the pot. The lace curtains flutter about. But she is unwilling to let it drop, even then.

“What do you think about it now?”

“About what?”

“Getting help.”

“I know it’s not easy,” Sana says, patiently. She feels her composure thinning, temper slipping. She struggles to keep the desperation out of her voice. “But I thought we both knew what we were getting into when you said you wanted this.” _when we got married, when we got Tzuyu, when you decided to spend your life with me._

Anger flickers across Mina’s expression, at being called out, at having her words used against her. If she were younger, if Tzuyu weren’t asleep by Sana’s side, she might have resorted to raising her voice to get her way. Now, she closes her eyes and takes a breath.

“This is your life as much as it’s mine and Tzuyu’s,” Mina begins, very rationally.

Sana’s jaw tightens, she feels the pull of muscle around her eyes and brows. Doesn’t even want to think about how she looks, what expression she’s wearing. Tired, possibly. Her back is sore and her head feels gummy with too little sleep. This conversation is undeserving of a Sunday afternoon.

“I know that,” Sana reasons. “So, what – do you want them to ply me with experimental drugs? Have them stick electrodes and needles in me? Do you want me like that?”

Mina flinches. Sana doesn’t miss how she sets her palms flat against the counter, as though she’s negotiating a business deal. “Don’t you want to get better, too?”

“I do. I did. Now, it’s just something I live with. Can you accept that?”

Mina is quiet. She’s not looking at Sana, but at Tzuyu, fast asleep. There are little red fire engines printed on her pyjamas, her little hands are fisted in Sana’s shirt, a smear of drool on her chin. Sana’s breath tickles at her hair.

“I want,” Mina says, wets her lips, “I want her to grow up and know who you are, not who she remembers you to be. She needs _both _her parents.”

“She has you.”

“It’s not the same. You _know_ that.”

Sana does know. But she also knows Mina is many times more the parent her father ever was. Tzuyu will be fine. It will hurt, but children bounce back fast.

Sana’s eyes feel hot. She looks away, looks down at her daughter. “You don’t think I want that too?” She shakes her head, “There is no cure, Mina.”

She hears rather than sees Mina approaching.

Sana continues, voice trembling, before Mina could come and touch her so gently and all her resolve will crumble away: “If she remembers me, I want her to remember me like this. I want her to remember me playing and laughing with her. Not sitting on a wheelchair heavily-medicated and so out of it I can barely remember her name. So, _please_. Please don’t ask me to do this.”

She feels the dip in the couch where Mina sits, precariously at the edge. Sana’s hand instinctively reaches out to stabilise Mina, only for it to be taken into Mina’s hands. At the press of lips to her palm and fingers, Sana turns her head to look.

Mina’s crying. She brings Sana’s hand to her chest. Sana feels her heart beat, in its own pleading way, beneath the soft press of flesh. “And what about me? _I_ need you.”

Sana lets out a breath, releases all her hurt and anger with it. Next to her, Tzuyu twitches. She never meant to make a beggar out of Mina’s heart.

She thinks back to their last dinner; Mina had insisted on cooking, having everyone seated at the table and talking about their day. It had felt normal, almost disturbingly so. Sana had watched Mina multi-task between ensuring the fish doesn’t burn in the oven and preparing the butter sauce it’s meant to go with. Dinner came out perfectly, despite all her fussing and fretting. And Sana remembers thinking –

“You’ll be fine.”

She’s sure of it. Mina will be fine because she always is. Life will persist without Sana, because that’s what it does.

She nods, mostly to herself, repeats: “You’ll be fine, you’ll see."

Mina just looks at her, then her expression crumbles and shuts down and there’s nothing there to salvage. Mina drops her hand, stands from the couch. Sana’s left grasping air. Mina’s eyes are red and her cheeks are hollowed out and Sana wonders, _what have we done to each other? how can this be a good thing?_

And Sana has done a great many things that have warranted apologies, but Sana worries if she’d be forgiven for this.

“Whatever that's gonna happen, good or bad, has already happened,” Sana tells her.

It’s only mid-afternoon and Sana’s already tired, wants to crawl back into bed and spend the day sleeping.

Mina says nothing. In her eyes, there’s a stony kind of anger. Her silence spreads over the days, nights. If they do speak, it’s of things of little substance. Sana sometimes wonders if she should have spared Mina of this misery, somehow. A crueller kindness.

But it’s already happened.

(Mina is 41, Sana is 42)

Something goes sour, the next few weeks.

Sana’s lying in bed when a distressed Tzuyu grabs hold of her sleeve, yanking her headlong into the study. What she finds there makes her falter by the doorway. Books are ripped from their shelves, the reading lamp toppled over, pages torn on the desk. Ink is slashed viscerally across the pages.

Mina is there. Standing in the midst of it, a hand pressed to her mouth as though bracing herself, breathing heavily. Sana cautiously ventures. Hand reached out but hesitant to touch. She knows how sensitive Mina gets, has fifteen years of marriage to show for it.

“What’s wrong?” Sana asks, reduces her voice to a gentle hum.

“Everything.” Mina’s voice is flat and tasteless. “Everything’s _wrong_!”

Sana feels Tzuyu flinch behind her. “Okay,” she tries, even if she’s not sure exactly what, “Please, tell me what’s wrong. We can fix this. We can. C’mon.”

“No,” Mina spits, dark and angry and Sana stills for a moment. It’s a colour she’s never seen Mina in. She realises that she’s afraid. “We can’t. We can’t fix anything. You know what it feels like? Every time we fix one mess, there’s another to fix. And another. Our life together is just one pile of messes we can’t fix.”

The fear gives way to anger, rising uncertainly but rising nonetheless. She swallows, tries to be amenable. “What are you saying? You’re giving up?”

Mina bristles so viciously, Sana takes a step back, nudges Tzuyu back. “Don’t you _dare_ put words in my mouth.”

Tzuyu begins to whimper, shrinks further into Sana’s shadow. She grips at Sana’s pant leg hard enough that her little fingers pinch at Sana’s skin. Her eyes flit wildly from Sana to Mina. This is not her mother, just some woman made desperate and pathetic by circumstance.

“Please,” Sana says, lowering her voice, “calm down.”

“Yes, calm down. Like you. You’re calm. In fact, you’re so calm about everything that’s happening, I have to wonder if you even care.”

“Of course, I –!”

“If you cared, then you’d do something! Not sit around and indulge in self-pity! If not for yourself, then for Tzuyu. For _me_!” Her voice cracks at the last word. Sana flinches at the broken sound.

Tzuyu begins to wail. Sana glares, bends down to pick her up. Angles her body away from Mina.

“This isn’t how we should be. She shouldn’t have to see this,” Sana says, disapproving.

“She shouldn’t have to grow up without you, either.” Mina’s turned her back on Sana. But she looks frail, trembling from either anger or sadness – it’s hard to tell which. “See, we can’t always have what we want.”

(Mina is 40, Sana is 42)

It’s New Year’s Eve and Mina is up alone in the flat watching cable and drinking wine. Trying not to feel sorry for herself, but failing. She pours herself a generous helping of wine, thinks maybe getting somewhat tipsy may help. Sana’s gone, and despite her assurances that there’s another Mina somewhere out there waiting for her, Mina can’t help but worry. It’s freezing out, well below zero, and Mina worries, of course.

It’s late and Tzuyu’s asleep in her cot. She shifts to get comfy on the couch, settles in for the long wait. And then – 

Then the lock on the door’s clacking and turning and the door swings open. Sana is there. On her knees on their front steps, in a tan beige coat that’s cinched around the waist and a black turtleneck inside. Mina stands. The throw rug falls to the floor and pools at her feet.

She looks different, but not in a way Mina can explain. She knows, immediately, this is not _her _Sana. This Sana belongs to someone else, another Mina who’s just as alone as she is on New Year’s. And it’s not the same, they’re not interchangeable, but suddenly Mina’s glad Sana is here, even if it means some future version of her is deprived of Sana’s company.

Sana’s face is red with the cold, and she looks sheepish and ridiculous kneeling there with a paperclip in her hand –

“Did you just _pick_ the lock?”

Sana flinches. Stands and hides her hands in her pockets, bunches her shoulders defensively at the accusation despite being caught red-handed: “No.”

Mina’s too tired to be mad. She looks Sana up-and-down, can’t believe she’s there, can’t believe she’d picked the lock instead of knocking or ringing the bell, like a normal person (a younger Sana had broken their old lock). Wonders who Sana got those clothes from and how she got here, but then doesn’t think of anything at all.

She turns on her heel, says, “Close the door. You’re letting the cold in.”

She hears Sana’s heavy footsteps behind her. The door clicks shut, and it’s quiet again. Sana braces a hand against the bannister and takes off her boots, but not her coat. She follows Mina into the living room, and lifts a brow at Mina’s little nest.

Mina ignores it, and heads straight to the kitchen to retrieve another wineglass. When she returns to the living room, Sana is sitting on the couch flipping through the channels.

“Wine?” Mina offers, but pours her a glass anyway.

“I really shouldn’t,” Sana’s saying, but stops when Mina presses the glass into Sana’s hand insistently.

“It’s new year’s,” Mina insists, clinks her own glass to Sana’s.

Mina resumes her seat on the couch next to Sana. She brings up her legs and drops socked feet onto Sana’s lap. This, at least, is a little closer to how she imagined spending her new year’s.

Sana, to her credit, takes it all in stride. She shifts to accommodate Mina’s legs on her lap, and sets the glass down to rub Mina’s feet. Mina leans into her side of the couch, unfurling, easing into the cushions, and watches her.

Sana has put on some late-night cop show and, between them and the whinny of the television, Mina feels oddly unhinged. It isn’t anger, or resentment, or anything close to it, but something else. Mina can’t understand it, why her chest feels tight and her throat closes up like she might cry and everything feels too heavy.

“This is such a bad show,” Sana says, briefly, but she loves it. Mina sips at her wine, says nothing.

A few moments later, Sana asks, “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Ask?”

Sana smiles sadly down at Mina’s ankles. “Where or when I’m from? How old I am? If I’m even the same person?”

Mina considers it, picks absently at a fraying piece of thread that’s come loose from its stitching, then shrugs a little. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sana looks a little surprised by that. Her hands come to rest fully on Mina’s ankles. “It doesn’t?”

Mina shakes her head, puts her glass down on the coffee table decisively, as though something’s just been made very clear to her, and comes close to press a kiss to Sana’s mouth. Her hands make a mess of Sana’s borrowed shirt, and she would have crawled into Sana’s lap if she permits it. “It doesn’t.”

Sana goes carefully still underneath her. When she speaks, her voice is soft and gentle, trying not to break Mina’s heart. Too late for that, Mina thinks. “We shouldn’t.”

Mina pulls away. Her soft mouth is frowning. She doesn’t release Sana. Rather, her nails make quick work of the thread of Sana’s shirt, meaning to destroy _something_. In a house full of things which are malfunctioning or on their way to broken, she makes do with Sana’s shirt. “Why?”

Sana’s looking at her very closely. Her hands come up to grip at Mina’s elbows, and squeezes once, before moving up to her shoulders. Sana’s hands are still a little chilly. Her eyes are strained, like she’d been up all hours of the night. “I have to go,” she tells her.

Mina blinks, and whatever that’s come over her is gone in an instant. She jerks away, shrinks further into her side of the couch and removes her ankles from Sana’s laps. Plants her bare feet firmly on the floor. She takes a breath; hates how it’s come to this.

On the other side of the couch, Sana says, “Mina.”

“No,” Mina says, takes a hearty drink of her wine to steady herself, “Let’s just watch the show.”

Sana thins her lips, seems to be holding back her words when she says, instead, “I can stay for a few minutes.”

Something curdles in her gut, milk-sour and rancid. “A few minutes,” Mina repeats. “It’s always just a few minutes.”

Sana frowns, sits upright and pivots her body to face Mina – willing to talk it out. Mina refuses to give her the satisfaction, stares ahead at the television instead. It’s late and it’s new year’s and Mina misses Sana so, _so _badly.

“Mina,” Sana says, again. She sounds disappointed, tired, like they’ve been through this a million times and it’s still managed to come up. It sounds a lot like, _please don’t do this. _So, naturally, Mina _has _to do this.

Maybe they’ve – _this_ Sana and her – never done this before; maybe they have a million times. Mina will never know. Right now, Mina doesn’t care.

Sana shuffles closer. “You know I’d never want to leave you.”

“And yet,” Mina says, putting it very simply, “you always do.”

Sana sighs, and her face grows impatient. Frustrated. She looks away, and when she speaks, her voice is low and dark, and not at all comforting. “It’s not like I can control it.”

“People have no control over their lives all the time.”

Sana turns to look at her, eyes narrowed. She’s stretched thin, nerves frayed. She snaps, “People don’t wake up in the night to find themselves in the middle of a freeway when it’s below zero outside. This is not what I wanted for you, but you knew. You knew all your fucking life.”

They haven’t argued like this since Sana was 29, spitting vulgarities and insults meant to hurt. Since Tzuyu, Sana has been more reserved, passive, afraid to lose what’s been gained. But it seems the dark and angry thing within her has been growing into something of a behemoth. The same dark and angry thing that had tempted her to put stones and sand into her pockets and walk into the Han River some winters ago.

“You’re right,” Mina says, hotly. They’re working up to a fight. “I knew nothing but _you_ all my life. I _built _my life around you. Sneaking out in the middle of the night to give you clothes so you don’t freeze to death, burying shoeboxes of clothes so you’d find them, sitting put feeling useless, worrying when the weather got bad. And maybe that’s the problem. I know nothing _but _you. You’ve made it hard for anything else. You’ve _conditioned _me.”

Sana gets to her feet, gritting her teeth. There are faint lines on her face Mina hadn’t noticed before. They’re easy to miss in the dark. Her eyes are like broken glass. And Mina’s never been looked that way before, not by Sana. “You know, it seems all I’m good for is to make you upset. I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t know what to do. But I’m sick of feeling this way.”

Sana doesn’t wait to hear what Mina has to say, just grabs her coat but not her boots and walks out the door. Slams it shut behind her as she goes. This Mina, at least, is easier to leave. _not mine_, she thinks. _not mine. _

Mina is left sitting on the couch, frowning down on her knees, when she’s spurred into action. It’s freezing outside, and Sana – any version of her – is still Sana. Is still _hers_. _Still mine, still mine._

Mina rushes out the door after her in her bedroom slippers, the lock hanging useless, hurries down the steps unseeingly. She stumbles into the cold winter. But Sana is gone. Not even a fresh track of footsteps in the snow. All that remains is a bitter taste at the back of Mina’s throat, and some stranger’s boots at her doorstep. Mina thinks – a sudden, wild thought – that Sana could be gone and leave no trace of ever being there at all.

Mina is not there when Sana returns. She spends a good half-hour lying on her bathroom floor frothing from the mouth. Then she forces herself to her feet, bruising knees and elbows along the way. Rifles through the bedside drawer for painkillers for the headache.

She lets herself sleep for some time, until she has to go get Tzuyu from pre-school.

(Mina is 41, Sana is 42)

The next few days are spent in tense silences and terse words, if spoken at all. Mina mostly ignores her, goes about her days as though Sana merely happens to live there, and not like they’ve been married for more than a decade. It hurts, but Sana’s got more important things to take care of than sulking. Like Tzuyu.

Younger Sana would have perhaps lay in bed nursing her wounds. But Sana now has responsibilities, obligations. She can’t just neglect them because of their little spat. Well, not ‘little’, but still.

She’s giving Tzuyu a bath after a particularly pathetic dinner (Sana’s cooking is passable at best) when she hears the front door close shut with a click.

“I’m home,” comes a voice from behind, a little later.

Sana almost drops the rubber duckies she’d been holding at Mina’s voice, quiet and ashamed, by the door. She’s leaning her hip into the doorframe, arms crossed. She looks unsure of herself. Sana looks up at her from her undignified squat by the tub.

Finally, the moment is broken by Tzuyu’s happy gurgle.

“Can I help?”

Sana says, belatedly, “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

Mina steps away from the door and into the room. Sana wishes they didn’t have to be so careful with each other, but the hurts are still tender, and will take some time to scab over.

She watches Mina roll up the sleeves of her smart-looking sweater. “What needs to be done?”

“Uh. I haven’t shampooed her hair yet.”

Mina nods, determined. “Okay.”

Mina squeezes out some baby shampoo and lathers it thickly on Tzuyu’s hair. Tzuyu squeals. Mina laughs under her breath. Sana stands there transfixed.

They don’t talk about it. Sana is too tired to provoke a response. The moment is nice enough to enjoy it by itself.

“Are you just gonna stand there? She’s your kid, too,” Mina says, eventually, but not harshly. It’s fond, even. Sana smiles, then goes to them.

Tzuyu flails her fists in the water, sends big splashes of soapy water Sana and Mina’s way. Mina squeaks, but is too late to avoid it. Her sweater’s ruined, and Sana freezes for a moment, worried. But Mina simply laughs. Then, noticing how Sana’s mostly dry, scoops up a handful of water to throw in Sana’s direction. It hits her fully in the face.

Sana sputters, spits out foul-tasting bathwater. Mina cackles at her face.

These are the two great loves of her life – one she’s known for almost all her life, the other she’s only known for four years. How can this be a bad thing?

Sana rubs at her eyes. The sting Sana feels in her eyes is definitely because soap got into them.

“Oh,” Mina says, wringing her hands. She stands to brush away tears on Sana’s face, pries open her lid to blow at Sana's eye. “Sorry.”

“No,” Sana laughs, weakly. Still strung out about their last fight. Spent the last few nights entertaining the possibility of dying alone like her father had, or setting a table for two instead of three, like she had after her mother died. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Afterward, they go to bed like nothing happened. Mina is the one to put Tzuyu to bed, and Sana relents with little protest. But she does pause by the corridor to see Mina sitting on the edge of Tzuyu’s cot. She’s lightly swiping her thumb along Tzuyu’s brow, the cupid’s bow of her lips, and Tzuyu blinks drowsily up at her. Sana hears her speak, but her voice is shapeless and soft that Sana can’t quite make out the words.

Once Tzuyu’s asleep, Mina kisses her forehead.

In the corridor, Mina almost backs up into Sana as she’s closing shut Tzuyu’s bedroom door. Sana studies her, arms folded. Shoulders held stiff. Her hair’s still damp, and she looks miserable, but not, Mina notes, angry. She supposes that’s not fair – Sana has never really been angry with her, not even when Mina had accused her of being selfish, indifferent.

_Mina_ had been angry. Angry at Sana’s silence, resignation, her apparent unwillingness to _fight_ for their future. But it’s hard to be angry now – Sana is looking at her as if she might leave and never come back. Mina wonders what it is about her that inspires some tendency to abandon her loved ones. All these years and still Sana doesn’t know her as well as should.

Sana offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, asks, “What were you talking to her about?”

Mina manages to look coy. “It’s a secret.”

“Is it?”

“You have your secrets. Let me keep mine,” Mina tells her. There’s an accusation in there somewhere, but it’s lost to the relief Mina feels just by having Sana close nearby.

Sana chuckles, says, “Fair enough.”

“Are you tired?”

Sana lets her head tip into the wall, shoulders sagging. She looks at Mina, all heavy eyes and dopey smiles. When she speaks, it’s more like an exhalation, expelled from her soul, “Very.”

Mina hesitates, but only briefly. Then she’s taking Sana’s hand, dragging her to their bed. They’re both weary, and no longer at the age where sex solves everything.

Mina doesn’t keep solely to her side. As the night deepens, she rolls over to tuck her head under Sana’s chin and tugs insistently at Sana’s hand till Sana obliges, drapes it over her waist. Sana gives in easy, all fight in her gone. She sighs, melts right into Mina. The night air is warm velvet.

They sleep like children. Deeply and free from hideous dreams.

In the morning, Mina kisses her awake, on her temple, her brow – works her way down Sana’s face. Sunlight probes gently into their home, but its weak light flares and dies, swallowed up by shadow. Sana thinks it odd that the sun must strain and struggle to keep the world alight, and fail, even then.

Apologies are said, hushed and murmured, but Sana has already forgiven Mina even when there had been nothing to forgive. She doesn’t think they’re bad for each other despite hurting each other, doesn’t think it’s anyone’s fault they are the way they are. And it seems Mina knows that, too.

Mina is perched over her, half-risen on her elbows. She reaches out to take a lock of Sana’s hair between her fingers, feeling for its quality. Sana’s been neglecting it – it feels dry and coarse and it’s split at the ends.

Then she lets her head fall, chin digging into Sana's sternum. 

"_Oof._"

Mina ignores her. The look she gives Sana – this must be what it feels like to drown, a willing submission. “I was scared,” she confesses, eyes open and honest. Turns her head to press her ear to the cavity of Sana’s chest when looking at her gets too hard. Prefers to hear how her heart goes at a slow throb instead (but that’s not much better).

If she speaks to Sana’s heart like this, how can it deny her anything?

She goes on: “I _am _scared. I don’t want to do this without you. I don’t know what to do to make you stay. I’m even more afraid you don’t _want_ to stay.”

Sana tucks loose hair behind Mina’s ear, red from when it had been pressed into the pillow all night. She realises there’s not much comfort she can give, no reassurances that would not be outright lying. She’s sick of talking anyway. She settles with touching – the blushing shell of the ear, the back of her hand where its splayed against her shoulder, the fine hairs at her nape.

“Did you mean it?” Sana asks instead, “When you said I conditioned you?”

Mina’s face screws up briefly in confusion, but then she remembers and her expression clears up. “When – oh.”

“I thought about it,” Sana says, quietly. “And I think there’s some truth to what you said.”

Mina’s eyes study her long and hard. “When did you go back?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sana shrugs. “You weren’t there.”

Mina stiffens against her. “I’m sorry.”

Sana simply hums, her fingers card through Mina’s hair.

“You’re angry with me,” Mina concludes. “I’ve said awful things to you. You walked out on me that day.”

“I remember,” Sana breathes, lets it out in one long sigh.

“You’ve never walked out on me before,” Mina says, and her voice is somewhat amused. “You must have had enough of my shit.”

“No, I just didn’t want to fight anymore.”

“Me neither.”

“Let’s just,” Sana starts to suggest. “Let’s just talk things out, yeah? If you feel like it’s too much, or _I’m_ too much, or if you’re upset?”

“Yeah,” Mina agrees. “Okay.”

“You have every right to be upset, but just _talk_ to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mina says, cups Sana’s face. “But only if you talk to me, too. We’ll do this together. I’m staying. Whatever happens.”

Sana gives her a long look. Then nods, “Okay.”

Mina smiles genuinely at her for the first time in several days, appeased. Then kisses her, lazy and slow. Sana doesn’t think about dying for the first time in weeks. Sana makes a sound, happy and sleep-soft, at the back of her throat. Made very aware of how Mina’s hands frame her face and the heat her face must emit.

Then, “Do you know when it’s going to happen?”

Sana is quiet for a beat. Mina shifts closer. Sana chokes out: “Yes.”

“Tell me?” Mina prompts, softly.

“I – I can’t.”

Mina kisses her cheek – a scant comfort. Sana can’t say anything. She’s shaking too hard for that. 

Mina’s hands are at her face, wiping away tears and snot. She’s disgusting but Mina’s still holding her. Looking very sadly at her. Mina’s not mourning for herself this time. She whispers, “Oh, darling.”

Mina sits up in bed and pulls Sana’s head into her laps, press kisses to her ear and face and says nothing as Sana shudders and comes apart in her laps. There’s little need to pretend, here. Not when Mina’s holding her like this.

The world is knocking on their front door, tapping at their windows, but they refuse to answer. Let the world wait, Sana thinks. Just a while more.

(Mina is 42, Sana is 43)

Sana is away when Tzuyu falls sick.

Mina’s alone at home, in bed with Tzuyu lying next to her. Mina’s hand rests on Tzuyu’s soft belly, watching her sleep. She’s feverish, and she’s having difficulty breathing. Mina curls around her, reaches out to wipe away sweat. Tzuyu stirs at the touch, lets out a chesty, rattling cough that has Mina frowning in worry. At a loss of what to do, she begins to rub Tzuyu’s stomach, hoping to soothe her.

Sometime in the night, the coughing gets so bad that Mina panics and calls Jihyo.

Jihyo sounds groggy, but is alert immediately once Mina explains why she’s calling so late.

“—and Sana’s not here. I don’t know what to do,” Mina says, voice urgent and shaking, trying very hard not to panic.

“Hospital,” Jihyo says, firmly. Mina hears sheets rustling and shuffling in the back. “You should take her to the hospital. Can you drive? Never mind, I’m on my way now.”

Jihyo drives them, dressed in pyjamas and flipflops. Mina sits in the back with Tzuyu cradled in her arms. The girl’s shirt is nearly soaked through with sweat, but she’s awake now and babbling at Mina in gibberish toddler speak. Now and then, she asks for Sana. Mina coos at her, hushing her, distracts her with a stuffed toy brought from home.

“Does Sana know?” Jihyo asks, as they pull up in the parking lot.

“I left her a note.”

Jihyo nods. “Jeongyeon and Nayeon unnie’s on the way.”

The doctor tells her it’s a lung infection. Tzuyu will have to be admitted for further observation. Jihyo is there with them the whole time, holding her hand. The doctor makes no comment about their relative states of undress. But he does say, not unkindly, “It’d be best if you get some rest, too. We could bring in an extra cot for her ward, if you’d like.”

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you,” Mina says, collecting Tzuyu back into her arms after the thorough examination. Tzuyu immediately wraps her arms around Mina’s neck, making indignant-sounding whines about being handled.

Later, Jihyo sleeps in the cot, while Mina simply curls up next to Tzuyu on the bed, raised on a slight incline. They’d administered some antibiotics, which had made her drowsy and cranky. They’d also given her something for her stuffy nose and cough.

Watching Tzuyu fall asleep, Mina’s not sure how much time passes, while Jihyo snores in the back, tired. Now that her worries are mostly abated, she can’t help but feel a little resentful.

Sana should be here. This is _their _daughter. Their daughter who is struggling to breathe as she sleeps, who is whining in discomfort and seeking a familiar touch, who needs her.

Jeongyeon and Nayeon arrives a little later. Only then does Jihyo leave. Mina hears them speaking in low tones outside the room until the door swings open to admit them both. Jeongyeon stands stiffly to the side, whereas Nayeon approaches the bed, touches Mina’s shoulder.

“She’ll be okay.”

Mina lets out a breath, feels tension leak from her shoulders. “Yeah.”

Jeongyeon says nothing, but looks on with tightness around her eyes. She looks almost angry.

Nayeon strokes Mina’s hair, kisses her head. “We’re going to the cafeteria. We’ll bring you something.”

Mina shakes her head and smiles, though it looks brittle. “No, thanks.”

This time, Jeongyeon steps forward and in the dimmed lighting, Mina sees that Jeongyeon _is_ indeed angry, but is trying not to be, for Mina’s sake.

“You need to eat. We’ll bring you something,” she insists, softens her voice and touches the back of Mina’s hand.

Mina’s too tired to argue, so she acquiesces with a nod. She must have also fallen asleep, because the next time the wakes, a nurse is knocking on the door and drawing back the curtains someone must have closed whilst she was asleep. Looking over her shoulder, Mina sees that Tzuyu is still sound asleep. Her breathing is much better, Mina notes, to her relief. Momo is somehow also there, passed out on a leather armchair.

The nurse says something about checking Tzuyu’s temperature and Mina nods along. She gets off the bed reluctantly, giving them space. There’s a takeout bowl of porridge on the nightstand that Mina ignores for now. She doesn’t feel too hungry.

Despite having slept, she feels like a wrung-out rag. And she suspects she doesn’t look any better, either. A glance in the mirror by the door confirms it. She looks washed out and pale.

Momo stirs when Mina presses fingers to her arm. Her leg kicks out in alarm, before she realises it’s only Mina and she sinks back into the chair looking apologetic.

“Sorry,” Mina murmurs, voice still scratchy from sleep. “When did you get here?”

“Hm, a while ago,” Momo replies, stretching.

Mina almost doesn’t ask, but she does anyway. “Is Sana with you?”

Momo’s face grows sympathetic, and she shakes her head. Mina looks away, hating it, hating the swoop of disappointment she feels in her gut.

“Hey,” Momo says, taking her hand, “she’ll be here.”

“What time is it?” Mina asks instead.

“A little after six.”

“Thank you for coming.”

At that, Momo smiles. “Of course.”

The nurse emerges then, saying something about how the fever has gone down but still has not broken before taking her leave. Mina returns to Tzuyu’s side at once, smiles at sight of her drooling into the pillow, little fingers clenched tight around her stuffed piglet.

To Momo, she says, “You should go home. I know you’ve got classes today.”

“They’re not until the afternoon.”

“Also, there’s a perfectly good cot there. Why were you on the chair?”

“Chaeyoung was here earlier. She just came back from a night shift so I let her have the cot.”

Mina frowns at having inconvenienced so many people. And yet, Sana’s not even here. She knows she’s being irrational – it’s not as though Sana has control over her condition. But, _still_.

“I’m glad you all came, but you really didn’t have to. She’s okay now.”

“I know. We wanted to anyway. You shouldn’t be alone,” Momo says.

Alone. The word stings. Momo’s right; she shouldn’t be alone. Sana should be here with her.

Mina exhales, standing there in the room. Is this how things will be? How can she raise Tzuyu alone? She doesn’t know if she can, if she’s strong enough. What were they thinking? What if something worse happens and Sana’s not there? How could a family like theirs ever work?

She isn’t aware Momo has also stood up, eyes bright with concern. “Mina?”

Momo folds her into her arms, and it isn’t till later that Mina realises she’s crying. She’s shaking hard enough that Momo’s also shaking with her.

After that whole episode, Momo guides her by the hand to the cot. Mina obliges her. She waits for Mina to get into bed before climbing in with her. They share the lone pillow. Mina doesn’t resist when Momo pulls her close, drapes an arm around her waist. Momo is here now, and Momo is so warm and steady and _present_. Mina can’t afford to be choosy with whatever comfort she’s going to get so she eases into Momo’s arms.

“Go to sleep,” Momo murmurs. “It’ll be better in the morning.”

Mina wants to argue that it’s technically already morning, but is too upset, too tired to do so.

This time, Mina wakes to Sana standing over the bed, face drawn. Momo is gone. 

Mina rubs her eyes and pushes herself up to sit. _How long have you been standing there? _Mina wants to ask. Instead –

“Where were you?” is the first thing she asks. Sana looks down at her feet. There’s a new scratch at her cheek, and her eyes are bruised. Mina lets go of her anger, now dulled from sleep.

There’s an apology perched on Sana's tongue, but it’s not enough. There aren’t enough ‘sorry’s in the world. So she makes do with the next best thing – she pulls Mina into a hug.

It takes a while for Mina to bring her arms around Sana’s shoulders, drop her face into Sana’s neck.

Mina doesn’t cry this time. She’s all cried out. But Sana does. In heaving, shuddering gasps that seizes her whole body. She ducks her face into Mina’s shoulder and wets the fabric there with tears and snot.

Mina’s heart hurts. She hears Tzuyu breathing deeply behind her; it has become a great source of comfort. She runs her fingers through Sana’s greasy hair gently, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

It’s a lie – a very kind, but ineffective lie. Maybe Sana would prefer that she say nothing at all, but maybe Mina needs the reassurance too. Sana shakes her head against Mina’s shoulder, refuses any part in that. Doesn’t feel she deserve it.

There are thin, angry gashes at the back of Sana’s shoulder that Mina feels under her t-shirt. Her shirt’s damp, too. As though she’d run the whole way here. Mina doesn’t know how to feel or what to say to that.

“You got my note?”

Sana nods, sniffling. “I came as fast as I could.”

“She’s okay now.”

Sana pulls away, rather unwillingly. “What did the doctor say?”

“Bacterial infection in her lungs.”

“Have you called your parents?”

Mina blinks. She had completely forgotten about her parents. Sana huffs out a laugh at her blank expression, then presses a phone – Mina’s, she must have left it behind in her haste – into her hand.

“You should call them,” Sana tells her.

Mina will, but right now, the thought of talking to anyone who isn’t Sana seems a daunting, tedious task, so she sets the phone aside for now. “Later.”

Sana looks like she wants to argue, but doesn’t. Instead, she gestures at a gym bag on the linoleum floor by her foot. “I brought your clothes. Thought you might want to change.”

Mina is only now conscious of how gross and sticky she feels in last night’s clothes. She must reek of stale sweat. “I do, thank you.”

Sana nods, smiling slightly.

“I think Jeongyeon’s mad at you,” Mina says.

Sana’s shoulder slumps. “I know. Nayeon unnie called me.”

Sana looks so sad that Mina cups her hurt cheek, rubs a thumb along the scabbing cuts. “What happened here?”

“Got into a fight with a homeless guy.” Mina raises a brow in question. Sana laughs airily. “He wanted to cop a feel.”

Mina laughs a little at that, too. “I bet you gave him quite a few.”

“More than.”

“Do they hurt?”

“No, not anymore. You should have seen the look on the receptionist’s face when she saw me.”

“You do look like a mess.”

Sana takes Mina’s hand and kisses her knuckles, almost reverently. Mina suddenly feels worried. Desperate, she clutches at Sana’s hand. “Are you leaving?”

Sana looks up at her, a stern set to her jaw. She’s through with falling victim to the world’s indifference. Her eyes are resolute when she looks at Mina, then over to Tzuyu, and declares: “I’m staying.”

(Mina is 42, Sana is 43)

When Tzuyu gets discharged, they throw a welcome-home party for her. It’s Nayeon’s suggestion, and one of her less silly ones, so they go ahead with it. Mina figures it’ll be good for Tzuyu to see her aunts, too.

Sana is putting up blue balloons in the living area when Jeongyeon comes through the door with pizza. She’d gone out to run some errands while Nayeon stayed to help Mina and Jihyo in the kitchen. Tzuyu is in her room with Dahyun.

Sana freezes. They have yet to make amends since Tzuyu’s got sick. Now, silence hangs between them uncomfortably. Sana turns to face her, awkward. Jeongyeon’s eyes roam about her face, brows pulling together when she sees the mostly-healed scratches there.

Sana lets out a breath. Decides to just take the bull by its horns. “You’re mad at me.”

Jeongyeon carefully skirts around the coffee table to set the pizza boxes down. She doesn’t bother to deny it, simply nods and admits, “I was, yeah.”

“I’m doing all I can,” is all Sana can say, briskly. She cringes at how she sounds, weak and desperate for approval. “And I know it’s not enough.”

“She needed you,” Jeongyeon cuts through her words. “_Tzuyu_ needed you.”

Sana grits her teeth, grounds her jaw. But she nods, “I know.”

“Mina was a mess.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

The question jars her. She looks up at Jeongyeon’s carefully neutral face. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. What are you going to do if something bad happens and you’re not there? What if something bad happens to _you_ and we’re not there?”

“I don’t know.” The admission shames her through and through.

“Well, figure it out. You must have a contingency plan, or something. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. Or are you so eager to let Mina handle everything? She already has a child to look after. Don’t tell me she has to worry about you, too.”

Sana glares at the floor, can’t believe she’s been so stupid and spineless all along. Jeongyeon is right.

Jeongyeon crosses the room to put a hand on Sana’s shoulder, and her eyes have gentled. It’s more kindness than Sana feels she deserves.

“Mina and Tzuyu are my family. You’re my family, too. I only want the best for everyone.”

Now, Sana looks up to meet Jeongyeon’s eyes. Jeongyeon doesn’t like the look in her eyes when she asks, “Will you promise me something?”

Jeongyeon nods without having to think about it. Whatever Sana’s asking, she knows she has to do.

Sana swallows, seems to have some difficulty spitting the words out. “If something ever happens to me, will you look after them?” Sana clasps Jeongyeon’s wrist tightly. “_Please_.”

A moment goes by. Understanding passes between them. Jeongyeon’s looking at her very carefully.

“Of course,” Jeongyeon says, solemnly.

Then the sombre mood’s broken by a loud crash in the kitchen, and Nayeon swearing and then fruitlessly trying to take back her cussing.

Jeongyeon sighs, drops her hand from Sana’s shoulder to make her way to the kitchen. “See what I have to live with?”

Sana grins. A weight’s been lifted off her chest. Mina lifts a brow at Jeongyeon’s arm slung around her shoulders when they both squeeze into the kitchen.

“Do I need to pay for any damages?” Jeongyeon deadpans.

“Hey,” Nayeon shoots back, hackles rising at the blatant accusation. She’s kneeling by some broken bits of ceramic. Mina’s given her a wide berth, while Jihyo has a dustpan and a broom held at the ready. “Fuc – screw you, okay. There was a cockroach!”

“Was not!” Mina denies vehemently. “It was a beetle!”

“Oh yeah, sure. It was a flying beetle the size of a cork.”

“Beetles get that big!”

They continue bickering until Tzuyu appears at the doorway holding on to Dahyun’s pinky. The colour’s returned to her face, though she looks worried.

Dahyun says, “We heard a crash. Tzuyu got worried.”

Several sets of hands reach out to stop Tzuyu from entering the kitchen compound for fear of the jagged shards of ceramic. Jihyo gets to sweeping the floor immediately.

Mina stays by Sana’s side throughout the whole affair. “You looked pretty chummy with Jeongyeon.”

“Yeah.”

“You guys made up?”

“You could say that.”

Mina rolls her eyes. “I hate it when you’re all vague.”

Sana laughs, kisses that frowning mouth, delighted when Mina kisses back.

The party ends when Tzuyu yawns, then promptly falling asleep in Sana's arms. Mina and Sana, with little else to do, decide to retire early to bed, like a couple of old ladies.

Later that night, Sana lies on her side, watches Mina sleep, Tzuyu between them. Mina’s snoring, noisy little whistles of breath out her nose. Sana has to smile a little at Mina’s apparent exhaustion. She’d been up all hours of the night making sure Tzuyu’s pillows are fluffed, her nose isn’t dripping and whatnot.

Their hands are linked atop Tzuyu’s belly. Mina’s fingers twitch ever soon often, and Sana would stroke along the length of her finger with her thumb.

It’s weird. When did they get so domestic? They were twenty and in love and now they’re well into their forties and married, with a child tucked under Sana’s chin.

She’s so deep in her thoughts that she doesn’t realise Mina’s breathing has picked up, and she looks up at curious, bright eyes. Surprisingly alert, for someone who had been sleeping mere minutes ago.

“Stop it,” Mina whispers.

Sana looks fondly at her. “Stop what?”

“Stop thinking so loud.”

“I woke you up?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Sorry,” Sana hushes, draws soothing circles on the back of Mina’s hand. “Go back to sleep.”

Mina studies her, face framed by pale moonlight. Sana’s chest hurts. “What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

Mina’s face darkens. “You promised,” she reminds.

“I’m just,” Sana tries, but fails. She doesn’t think there is a good enough word for what she feels. Eventually, she decides on: “Happy.”

Mina touches the downturned corner of Sana’s lips. “That doesn’t look like happy to me.”

“No, believe me, I am,” a deep breath, “the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Mina frowns. She opens her mouth to speak but pauses when Tzuyu turns over in her sleep.

Sana seizes this opportunity to say, “She’s a lot like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Manipulative. Always gets what she wants.” She makes sure Mina is watching her when she states, “Spoilt.”

Mina starts to laugh, but it dies away at once, just to demonstrate how _unfunny_ Sana is. “She’s a lot like you, too. Stubborn. _Clingy_. Besides, she's only spoilt because _you_ spoil her.”

Sana wonders how Mina can be so eloquent even when she's half whispering. She grins.

“Looks like she got the best parts of us, then.”

A wistful smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, a slow, quiet sadness that is also somehow happy at the same time. Mina reads the sombre mood, sees the flicker of emotion in Sana’s otherwise smiling face and her frown deepens.

“What is it?”

“I think I might be going away soon,” Sana confesses, busies herself with the curls of Tzuyu’s hair.

“Going where?”

“You know, away.”

“Oh.” Wants to ask, _are you coming back? _ But has no stomach, no courage to even consider it. So, instead: “Do you know where you’re going to this time?”

“Hm, I’m not sure. Can’t be nicer than here, I imagine.”

“You’ve been away a lot lately,” Mina says, as a passing remark. But the grip she applies on Sana’s arm says otherwise. “It’s been getting worse every time you go.”

“I know.”

“I’m worried.”

“When do you not?” Sana says, mostly in jest.

Mina’s scowl tells her it’s not appreciated. Sana remains undeterred.

Sana sobers up after a bit. Needs to have her fun first, and all. She was never really much good at goodbyes, so instead, she says, quiet and sure, “I’m fine, darling. Everything will be okay.” _i see you old and beautiful, and it’s a marvellous thing. _

Mina considers her for a long time, before she relents. “Okay, I believe you.”

(Mina is 42, Sana is 43)

They’re having a Christmas/New Year’s Eve party. Nayeon gets along swimmingly with Tzuyu, and Jeongyeon makes an off-handed remark about how they’re same mental age. Momo comes with Dahyun and Chaeyoung in tow, dressed like Santa’s elves (for some unfathomable reason). Jihyo gets the warmest welcome of all, because she brings the booze.

Sana watches Naeyon’s fussing with Tzuyu’s reindeer headband and feels something impossibly warm expanding in her chest. Mina joins her there, puts an arm around her waist and leans her head onto Sana’s shoulder.

Then Sana wonders aloud: “They’ll take good care of her, won’t they?”

And Mina stiffens. “Of course, they will. We will, too.”

Yes, the holidays bring cheer. But they also tend to make Sana weepy.

Sana noses Mina’s hair, willing to let go of her maudlin bouts for the sake of holiday spirit. But first, she will allow herself this, “I don’t think I ever told you. I love you.”

Mina pulls away, brows pulled together at Sana’s subdued mood. “Where’s this coming from?”

Sana laughs, shakes her head. “It’s the holidays. Makes me feel like a sap.”

Mina still looks concerned so Sana taps her on the nose, like she’d always done to a younger Mina. Younger-Mina had always looked so insulted. Now, she simply catches Sana’s hand and does her one better; she kisses Sana’s fingers. Sana flusters. _Checkmate_.

“Well, then, don’t cry when you say it,” Mina chides, smiling but still unsure. She brushes away tears that had somehow gathered. “Makes it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done, I think. I mean, aside from Tzuyu, of course.”

Mina rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Sana goes on: “But that’s more of a joint effort –”

“Sana, just kiss me,” Mina says, sharp and commanding.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nayeon shrieks something about an outrage of decency. Makes a whole show of covering up Tzuyu’s eyes while Jeongyeon argues about normalising affection in their home. In the back, Momo and Jihyo are bickering over a card game. Chaeyoung is accused of indecent behaviour after hanging a mistletoe over every possible doorway. Dahyun proceeds to down a whole glass of wine, and then another. And another. Tzuyu stumbles upon a mistletoe, Chaeyoung swoops in and kisses her cheek.

Her heart stills. Mina is watching her. Mina comes and laces their fingers together. Smiles warmly at her, pleased and content. Her heart beats slow, a happy tune.

She nudges Mina with her shoulder, whispers, “Hey, you wanna dance?”

There is no music. If they dance now they’d surely look out of their minds, or drunk. And Sana’s no dancer – not the way Mina knows how, but –

“Yeah, I really do,” Mina whispers back.

To be fair, Momo outdoes them all in that regard.

The countdown to the new year starts. Sana hears premature bursts of fireworks and celebrations in their neighbourhood, and laughs. Tzuyu keeps close, frightened by the sounds the world makes as it turns a year older.

She huddles by their legs until Sana scoops her up. Mina comforts Tzuyu with a hand to her back. It doesn’t stop her from pushing her face into Sana’s neck when the actual fireworks start, though. Mina puts her arms around them both and they grin at each other, and then they’re kissing.

Sana doesn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way. And figures the reason she doesn’t remember is because she’d been feeling this way all along. There’s little sand left in the hourglass.

_don’t leave me_, Mina thinks, holds on with all she’s got.

(Mina is 43, Sana is 44)

She’s in a room, and then she’s not. There’s snow at her feet. She feels the cold prick at her toes, sting the soles of her feet fiercely. In a matter of seconds, her feet are raw and red. She keeps moving, though. She has no idea how long she’d be in the cold for, so it’d be best for her to seek shelter and warmth.

She sees a cottage with grey smoke curling out of its stone chimney. She moves faster. Sees movement in her periphery and hears a sharp _crack_! Followed by the musk of gunpowder in the clipped air. And then she feels warmth. Down her belly, her legs, on her feet.

And then she is yanked out of this time and returned to her own. But something’s wrong. The moment her feet touch the heated floors of their home, her knees give and she falls, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s just cold. Odd. She presses trembling fingers to the slippery warmth on her belly, sees it come away red and thinks, _oh_.

She laughs, and winces because _that _hurts. She ends up choking instead, rather undignifiedly. When she breathes, there’s a raspy, wheezy quality to it.

Mina finds her like that.

Sana is gently turned over and pulled into her laps. It’s a little harder to breathe, but it’s better. Because Mina’s there.

“Sana,” she breathes, looking down at the mess Sana’d made of the kitchen and herself. Her eyes are wide and terrified. Her hand shaky as she puts it to Sana’s stomach. “Sana.”

She croaks, “Mitang.”

“I’m going to call the ambulance. We’re taking you to the hospital, okay? So just – hold on. _Please_,” Mina’s saying, and her hand moves away from Sana’s to pat at her pockets for her cell.

Sana’s too tired to reply. She reaches clumsily for Mina’s, halts her frantic search by curling her fingers around Mina’s hand instead. “Mitang.”

She doesn't want to die in a hospital. Where everything is sterile white and indifferent. She much prefers dying here, with Mina holding her. Selfish, sure, but hey. She's the one who's dying here. It’s a small consolation that Tzuyu isn’t here to see this.

Mina shakes her head furiously. “There must be something – no, this can’t be it. This is not – no.”

But it is. And Mina must know it, too.

_It_ is a life well-lived and well-loved. One that Sana would not give up for anything.

Sana makes a high, strangled sound at the back of her throat.

“No, _please_. Please, Sana." Mina’s eyes are desperately fierce and fiercely desperate. There are tears in them. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_, Sana. You’re not leaving me, not this time.”

Sana’s breath rattles in her lungs, and she can’t see or hear much but she _feels_. She feels Mina’s palm against her gross, sticky face, the press of her body against Sana’s, the hole punched into her body, the tickle of Mina’s hair, but even that is going. Her heart slows.

Let it not be said that Sana tried her hardest to come home.

Here, in this house that has seen them through the best and worst of times, Sana goes.

(Sana is always leaving, and Mina, always left behind)

(Mina is 43)

Mina sleeps in fits and starts. Sometime in the day (night?), Tzuyu comes and curls up in bed with her. She wakes feeling dull and filthy and unrested. She dreams of wild, impossible things and she wakes and realises it hurts too much to be awake. Better to be asleep.

Tzuyu's hair is taking on a greasy sheen. Mina suspects hers is no better. Tzuyu stirs, murmurs gibberish. A letter sits unread on the nightstand.

Mina regrets waking. She drifts back to sleep. Her phone's stopped ringing on the nightstand – it's either dead or the others have given up. 

She listens to the murmuring of a dark house, hears the clinking of glasses and ceramic ware as Jihyo puts them away. Briefly, Mina hears the tap turn on. Then, attuned to it, she imagines she hears Sana breathing. Close as though she were lying by her side.

Mina's hand flexes on empty sheets behind Tzuyu's back. She closes her eyes, can almost feel a warm hand settling atop hers. Her breath stutters, but she doesn't cry. She must have exhausted her supply of tears. Now, she's just tired.

Tzuyu shifts to get comfy. She's overheating, but they can't stand to be away from each other. It's only the two of them now, and vacant spaces all around where Sana used to be.

For a long time, they say nothing. They sleep.

(Mina is 44)

Sometime in the night, after a particularly long day, Mina thinks she feels someone else slip into bed with her. She jerks, stumbling brusquely out of sleep until someone hushes her, wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her in close. Toes – _cold_ toes – press up her calves and the back of her knees. She murmurs, twists around to get a better look, but then –

“Go to sleep, darling.”

“Oh,” Mina says. Pats the hand now resting flat on her belly. “Oh. I was having a bad dream.”

“Oh, yeah?” It’s nothing but a breath at her ear.

But her grip on consciousness is tenuous at most, and she’s falling asleep within seconds. Being a mother is hard, especially when she’s working. She’s juggling many things at once and some days, it feels like she’s drowning.

Mina nods drowsily, “The worst.”

She thinks she feels fingers tugging at the hem of her t-shirt. It must have ridden up in her sleep. In the hazy, uncertain in-between of wakefulness and sleep, Mina hears a sigh, a shaky inhale, and then – someone’s crying, wet and soundless save for the hitching of breath.

Mina’s too tired for that now. “Sh,” she says, like she would do to Tzuyu when she was fussing in her cot. “Sh.”

(Mina is 49)

Tzuyu's gone for track meet. She's growing into something of an athlete, that girl. Tall and leggy at eleven, and full of pubescent gangliness. 

Mina comes home, keys in the passcode and – stops. Something's off. For once, the sci-fi magazines Tzuyu insists on subscribing to, the very ones Mina had nagged Tzuyu for leaving them in disarray, are neat and tidy. Fanned out expertly on the coffee table.

The throw rug has been arranged fashionably on the couch. A glass of water sits on the coffee table, half-empty. There's still moisture on the rim and no coaster. The glass leaves a dark ring at its bottom. 

Mina drops her bag. Wanders further in on unfeeling legs. She enters Tzuyu's bedroom first. Sees Tzuyu's clothes folded on her bed. There are creases on the sheets that suggest someone had lain, or at least sat, there for some time. 

Mina moves on. Goes to her bedroom. She's doesn't dare hope, but she's hoping anyway. She can hardly breathe.

There are flowers on the bed. Clumsily thrown and bound-together into a bouquet of common daisies and chrysanthemums and wildflowers. There’s a note on the bed, held under the bouquet. She slides it out from under there, and smooths out the paper, which is actually the back of a receipt at a gas station, and scrawled on in pencil. She traces her fingertips over the indents where the pencil nib is pressed hard into the paper, where Sana had considered and reconsidered words and went them over her head once more before writing them down.

On it, several words are written: _love u both. _Followed by some childish cartoon hearts. _p.s. saw the medals in Tzuyu’s room. so proud. u did amazing, darling._

Mina feels her legs about to give, so she hurries to sit on the edge of the bed, blinking. Slowly, her fingers curl around the paper, feels her breaths come fast and unsteady. Holds it to her heart, hoping maybe Sana’ll hear how it beats, how it longs for her.

(Mina is 52)

The years go by both speedily and slowly. Tzuyu is shooting up like a well-watered sprout. Soon, she will be taller than Mina, and maybe, even Sana. She’s taken a particular interest in track and archery (which Mina is insanely proud of). Her teachers say she’s doing well in class and she has a bright future ahead of her and Mina –

Mina tears up a little. Wishes Sana’s here to see their daughter grow, too. Wishes she’s here to laugh and tease Mina grumbling about her silver hairs, then appease her with sweet words and sweeter kisses.

She supposes she’ll just have to make do with the thought of seeing her again one day. Mina suspects she’ll have more grey in her hair and more lines on her face than she knows what to do with. Her knees will be achy and cold mornings will disagree with her, and she’ll have to get used to wearing her reading glasses permanently.

But she looks forward to it.

Sana will call her, ‘darling’ and all the years between them will melt away and they are twenty-six again, laughing too much to properly kiss, stepping on toes when they dance, being pushed into walls and thoroughly kissed, having no shame about how they love and are loved. There’ll be a farm on a hill, and a field of flowers, and no end to eternity. Together, this time.

(Mina is 55, Sana is 42)

Mina shuts her eyes briefly and there’s a rush of air, and when she opens them again, Sana is there. In a collared shirt and slacks, like she’d just come from work and is stopping by for a change of clothes, lunch, a quick kiss. But her feet are still bare. Mina smiles gently at that, lets her head tip back into the headrest.

Sana tilts her head to the side, lips curled playfully. “You look like you’ve been expecting me.”

It’s been near thirteen years. Mina scoffs, but it’s good-humoured, “Oh, please.”

Sana’s grin broadens, threatens to split her whole face. It’s been so terribly long and Mina aches something fierce.

They stand there smiling at each other like fools for what seems like a long while, then Sana drawls: “Hi, darling.”

“Don’t ‘hi’ me,” Mina says, tenderly. “You’re thirteen years late.”

But Sana looks like she knows that already. “Yeah? I’d say I’m right on time.”

“Well, your timing always did suck.”

Sana chuckles, and the sound washes warmly over Mina. Her eyes begin to water. Sana takes it all in, jaw clenching, and gazes fondly at her, “And that was why I always needed you.”

“Needed,” Mina echoes, can’t help the choke in her voice.

“Darling,” Sana says. “That was no way to live.”

“It’s the only way I know how,” Mina says. There’s a slight bite to her words, a touch of resentment. Sana draws back, frowns.

Then, she says, very gently, “Not anymore. You have to let me go, Mitang. Don’t spend your life waiting.”

Mina inhales sharply, grips tighter at the armrest till her knuckles whiten. “This is it, then.”

Sana says nothing, but something in her expression confirms it. She offers a smile, then amends, “For now.”

Mina looks away, feels petulant and sore. Her breath shudders clean through her.

When she speaks, her voice comes out gasping and hoarse, and she is distinctly aware that she’s begging, but she doesn’t much care. “_Please_.”

Sana’s eyes are wet, though she sheds no tears. She comes close, close enough for her hands to rest over Mina’s own, and leans in till Mina can see the faint lines on her face, and silvery wisps of her hair. All these years and she’s still the prettiest thing Mina’s ever seen.

“Darling,” Sana says, quietly, sweetly, “thank you, for loving me.”

A door creaks in the house, and there are hasty footsteps and a voice calling out, _mommy!_

Sana looks up, and inhales deeply, says something like, “We did pretty good, didn’t we?”

Mina blinks away tears, turns briefly away to look at the screen door behind them. When she looks back, Sana is gone. Mina exhales. It smells of flowers and grass and spring.

(Just like it’d always been between them.)

_End_

_Imagine you are coming home. Your front_  
_steps are scattered with fresh petals or no_  
_they are not there and you return in your_  
_regular shoes from your regular chair._  
_The feeling is the same. The petals are just_  
_as fine, the colours just as blithe and were placed_  
_or unplaced by the same loving hand_  
_or troubled hand or loving troubled hands._

_ – Where You Live, Jonathan Wells_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter, I know. Are you still with me? I sure hope so. It is kind of draggy in parts, but I've read and re-read the entire thing so many times that honestly? I can't really tell anymore and am kind of sick of editing it repeatedly lol. Not without delaying this further, of course. I hope this wasn't too disappointing lol. I will also get to answering comments, eventually lol. Please be patient with me.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. I hope I made it worth your time. Feel free to come talk to me. No guarantee I'll reply immediately, but I'll try my best. Thanks y'all.
> 
> P.S. I realise that this is a sensitive period of time, considering all that's been going on. Just want to let you know that this was written ahead of time and completed some time last year, and it's bad timing, it really is. If I have in any way offended anyone, please let me know. I've edited it to make it less conspicuous, but I mean, it's still there.
> 
> Also, this is for you. You know who you are. This is not possible without you. Thank you. I hope it was good enough of a love-letter?

**Author's Note:**

> This time, I wanted to explore less about Sana's time-travelling itself and more about their relationship. I am convinced that they would have normal-couple issues, and time-travelling just serves to complicate everything. I didn't want to make it too sad, though, so I added intermittent sprinkles of fluff in between the angst lol.


End file.
